


Fallout: Anarchy in the Commonwealth

by emdashesnsemicolons



Series: Fallout: The Choose Your Romance Project [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: 1950s Slang, ALL THE ANGST, Age Difference, All of the -isms, Anchorage, Angst, Asexual Character, Autoimmune disease, By PoC about PoC, Canon-Typical Violence, Capitalism, Chronic Illness, Colonialism, Dark Humor, Developing Friendships, F/M, Fatalism, Female Character of Color, Forced Sterilization, Gag Law, Gen, Government Experimentation, Grief/Mourning, Historical References, Hope vs. Despair, Human Experimentation, Latina!SoSu, Law 53, McCarthyism, Medical Experimentation, Military Experimentation, Military Presence in Vieques, Multiracial Character, Nationalism, Nihilism, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Patriotism, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Puerto Rico, Race, Red Scare, SoSu of Color, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, Yes this title is a Sex Pistols reference, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-14 19:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20606342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emdashesnsemicolons/pseuds/emdashesnsemicolons
Summary: Julia didn't bleed and toil and suffer to blend in, to protect her family, to expose the enemy...just for the enemy to completely disappear. Newly widowed, and on the search for her kidnapped infant son, the Commonwealth is now the outlet for her two-centuries-old rage.





	1. Goodnight, Julia

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is titled after The Seatbelt's "Goodnight, Julia," as heard on the fabulous Cowboy Bebop OST.
> 
> A shameless, self-indulgent fic that will make many people either angry, uncomfortable, or hopefully both. This series is dedicated to my dearest friend, J, who has been cheering me on during my many years of literary suckitude and mediocrity. And now that my field of cares is a barren wasteland, on to the fic: 
> 
> Warning for slight gore.

The flood of light hit Julia like a tidal wave and her feet failed her over the rickety platform, knocking her back with a thud once the elevator reached its destination and clanked into place. The silence, a stark contrast to the screeching sirens in the vault, was almost deafening and suddenly her ragged breathing rang too loudly in her ears.

Blue. The sky was still blue, just like the last time she'd been on the surface: a bright, cold shade with wispy clouds of fine-spun gossamer. It was a joke. It had to be a joke. But, then... Why were the tree branches so bare? October was famous for its spectacle of amber, ruby and gold foliage, so much so that out-of-towners would often flock up to Boston just to catch a glimpse. She glanced at that over-sized wristwatch on her arm—what was it called? A Pip-boy?

No... That seemed about right. October 23rd. But, the year... 2287. Had she not been on her ass already, her legs would have given out. Two hundred and ten years. They'd been locked in those ice coffins for two hundred and ten years.

The pods. Oh, God. _Nate..._ Stains of blood marred the front of her vault suit. His blood. The memories rushed back to her like the surge of high tide, and she could do nothing but sit here and drown in them. Half-lidded milky white eyes, once vivid hazel, now unseeing and still. The coppery-sweet stench of blood and decay, sticky against her palms. A few strands of his dark hair were still stuck to her shaking hands. Another icy wave of panic stole her breath away and she shuddered, rubbing at the legs of her suit, only to find the sludgy entrails of the giant mutated roaches she'd been forced to shoot. A dry sob lodged in her throat. Shaun... The two strangers, the kidnapping, Nate's murder... None of this had been another one of her nightmares. _No, no_. It had to be, right? This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Her dark hair, unkempt and messy from the scuffle, whipped across her face in the freezing breeze, sending a chill down her neck.

With legs like that of a newborn foal, she stood up, clutching the neck of her suit closed as if that would keep her any warmer. The skyline was empty: nothing but dead trees contorted from the backblast, miles of rusted chain-link fences guarding windburned vines and stone ruins. None of the glittering buildings that once stood in the glory that once was Concord. The sparse grass beneath her boots crunched and crumbled away into dust in a violent gust of wind, sweeping in front of her. Beneath the hill sat a few houses, ramshackle, with missing roofs, but all painted the same dreadful shade of robin's egg blue. And, out of all things to survive, it had to be that stupid paint. That stupid, fucking blue paint marking the Sanctuary Hills subdivision.

When had she gotten down here? Her legs were sore, the fabric at her knees shredded and wet, and her boots squelched with each step she took. She was sure there were a few pebbles in her socks, but she couldn't summon the energy to care, nor do something about it.

Picket fences lay on their sides, splintered and warped, paint chipped off to reveal the rotting wood inside. Julia huffed a single syllable of a laugh. The irony of it all. Just like the world she'd been aiming to expose. And she'd never gotten the chance to. Nor, would she ever, probably. Now, it was all blown to shit. And for what?

Exhaustion was setting into her bones, pulling her muscles and joints down with the weight of soaking wet denim. She barely registered the tinny voice of a Mister Handy approaching her, speaking in its familiar, exaggerated RP accent. Out of all things to survive, of course, Codsworth had to make it. Not Nate. Not Shaun. Not her family, her stupid blue house, nor vegetation. But Codsworth. Weary eyes blinked, feeling sandy and brittle. His arms were animated, and he kept talking, but her head could not process it. It was all just noise to the images in her mind. Her lungs felt tight like there was some kind of rope squeezing the air out of them, and her head felt light and heavy and everything was loud and there was a piece of Nate's scalp still stuck to her clothes and...

When she came to, it was dark and quiet. No crickets chirping, no owls hooting, just the occasional clang of a sun-bleached flag fluttering outside, the high pitched squeak of a gate hinge flapping in the wind and the subsequent blunted smack against what remained of the fence. Drafty as it was, she was indoors; she could tell from the silvery moonlight spilling in through the blown-out window frames and exposed slats on the wall. Despite the structural damage, the vinyl flooring seemed to be in pretty good shape underneath the carpet of dead leaves, considering it had survived an atomic bomb or two. The tile was curled and cracked on some edges, but it was salvageable, in her opinion. Back in her old college brownstone apartment in New Jersey, the linoleum floors always curled during the winters, especially nearest to the radiators. Her old roommate had always taken a towel and a warm iron, replaced the glue, and smoothed the tile back down. Julia reached a tawny hand to move away some of the debris when she noticed the blanket wrapped around her. Moth-bitten, with the earthy stench of mold, but warm, nonetheless.

“Mum? Are we feeling any better?”

Codsworth, no doubt. Julia could barely look at him—more out of fatigue than spite. She remembered arguing with Nate about him buying a robot butler. _Too expensive, not useful enough,_ she'd insisted. Not only had he forced her to move into a dreadful cookie-cutter suburb near a city full of people who hated people of their color, their ethnicity, but he insisted on showering her with luxuries she had no use for: the obscenely large diamond engagement ring, the glossy coral bubble top Corvega, the designer clothes and cosmetics... And out of all things, Codsworth was the only one left. Not Nate. Not Shaun. Not her mother_,_ nor her father, not even Noodles the neighborhood cat. Only... Codsworth.

"They're all gone," she croaked out.

Codsworth hovered closer to her. Even in the darkness, she could see the scratches, dings and wear over his once pristine chrome chassis. His eyestalks dilated in what looked like... sympathy?

"Who, mum?"

"Everybody."

And for the first time in the 48 hours she'd been out of her chamber, Julia Vidal wept.


	2. Wo Qui Non Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the wasteland is taking a toll on Julia's already fragile health, but a good friend (or two) prove to be essential to making it worth living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titled after Yoko Kanno's "Wo Qui Non Coin," from the Cowboy Bebop OST "Blue."
> 
> Warnings for suicidal ideation, drug abuse mentions, and brief animal cruelty mentions.

It took twelve rounds to kill that enormous bloatfly, its body rupturing into a pool of slime and entrails. Jesus, were all insects this huge nowadays? Those roaches in the vault had been the size of a rabid poodle, and just as eager to jump on her.

“You showed that fly what's what, Miss Julia!”

Yup. And it only took, what? An entire clip? Nate might have been accustomed to using firearms, but the last time she'd tried shooting something, she'd sprained her wrist. She sighed, put the safety back on and tucked it into her apron. Now that she knew for sure she wasn't the only human left, she needed to learn how to use Nate's shotgun. And quick. Otherwise...

Well, would that be so bad? Someone like Julia wasn't fit for this. Even if this hellhole beat her birthplace of Vieques, she was used to being part of a group. It was being part of a group that got her family a spot in Vault 111 in the first place. Had Nate not been a decorated veteran and Julia part of a pharmaceutical company, the three of them would have been among the many skeletons littering the wasteland. And now, she was alone. So, really. Would it be so terrible to die now?

Back in her house, she perused through her nightstand, sorting aside all the brand name cosmetics and lotions to get to her orange plastic chem bottles. Other than some fading, the labels were nearly intact. A quick cocktail of Buffout and Calmex would put her in cardiac arrest in no time. It'd be quick and, unlike a gunshot to the skull, she wouldn't miss. The Buffout pills rattled onto the palm of her hand, where the raised rash had already spread. It usually originated over her forearm, right around her elbow. Would it even work to keep it at bay now, as was intended?

“It... is not my place to say, Miss Julia, but... Please, do hear me out.”

She shot Codsworth an impassive look.

“I live to serve, mum, and you know it to be true. And while we have not always gotten along, the fact remains that I would gladly put my life on the line for you.”

She didn't respond. Apparently, he took this as a sign to approach and set a tray of fried Cram and a Nuka-Cola beside her.

“And so, it pains me to see you like this, throwing your life away... For... For nothing.”

The capsules rolled around in her hand, the powder inside making a pleasing soft whoosh. She grasped a few between her fingers, relished the way they massaged her swollen joints and flesh.

“Master Nate would want you to keep living, mum. I am sure of it.”

“Yeah, well... Master _Nate_ ain't here,” she said quietly. God, she was tired. So tired.

“No. And I consider it among the greatest of tragedies to befall mankind. But you are alive. And Young Shaun—"

"—Don't."

"There is _hope, _Miss Julia! And that is a quality I most admire in you humans. Does that not count for anything?"

She scoffed and leaned her head back against the wall. Her neck hurt just from holding herself up for so long. Tears pricked at her eyes and at the inside of her nose. She was having a conversation with an overgrown toaster, and it—_he _was making her cry.

"Even if Shaun is still alive, how am I supposed to find him in all..." She made a weak gesture with her hands, a sniffle rattling in her nostrils. "This? How am I supposed to find him like this?"

Codsworth extended one of his arms, his claw holding a ragged cloth napkin to her cheeks. The orange silk kind. As soon as they'd moved here, Nate had insisted on silk napkins to replace her cotton ones. She guessed the cotton ones didn't make it, after all. _You were right, once again._ He always was.

"You take some time for the flare-up to subside and rest up. I'll gather what I can, and then... and then, we can discuss Concord."

Concord, according to him, was populated with other humans. Not nearly as refined and put together as he, of course. Likely some more of those raiders he'd spooked off the other day. If that was the case, she didn't see how they would be helpful at all—unless they decided to do her the favor of putting a bullet between her eyes.

* * *

It took close to a week before the leaden sensation began to ease up on her muscles and joints. Her right arm still felt a little stiff and her grip wasn't at its best, but Julia decided it had to be good enough. Off to pack supplies she went, room by room. Soap, (lots of soap because, by God, this place was nasty), cans of purified water, her prescriptions, clothes, and other essentials. And if she couldn't find them in her own wreck of a house, her dead neighbors certainly didn't need their old belongings anymore. And she was running out of Cram already.

And yet... Her hand lingered over the doorknob leading into the nursery. Shaun's room. As if opening it would unleash the monster prowling under her skin, as if seeing his hand-carved crib, empty and covered in a thick layer of dust would take those phantom cries echoing in the back of her mind and turn them into visual hallucinations. Her baby wasn't there. Her baby boy wasn't within the softness of her belly anymore, either. And if she had to see that reminder again... That idly spinning mobile. The lopsided stuffed rabbit she'd crocheted for him, probably still resting against the corner of the crib, waiting for Shaun to play with it. Or cuddle it. And he never would.

Julia's breath hitched in her throat and she ripped her hand away from the doorknob as if it had burned her.

"Er... Miss Julia?"

Codsworth had waltzed in at some point. When? She wasn't sure. The concept of time was still a bit wonky to her. He kept fidgeting with his metal claws like a child twiddling their fingers upon admitting they'd broken a lamp playing catch indoors.

"May I assist you in some way?"

She blinked back the tears caught in her lashes.

"I can't do it. I can't. I can't go in there."

"But of course, mum. I would be happy to retrieve what you need from..." Was he taking some time to consider his choice of words? Or was he finally glitching after 210 years? "From this room."

She parted her lips to speak but found no words, so she nodded instead.

* * *

At his suggestion, they traveled after sunset. Sunlight worsened her symptoms, at least prewar. What this post-war world would do to them was still a mystery, but so far it hadn't been quite too kind. She'd been able to fit into one of Nate's old long-sleeved flannel shirts, although the breadth of his shoulders and back were the only reason she managed to button it closed. His pants had been too small for her to slip into, even after all the vomiting and lack of food she'd experienced. Old Mr. O'Shaughnessy, the racist curmudgeon of a neighbor he'd been, finally served a purpose after all these years. His (now former) corpulence made it so that she could put his denim overalls to good use, even if she had to cuff up the pants legs a little. She took the liberty of shredding one of his dress shirts to make a holster for her machete; she decided that would have made her grandpadamn proud of her.

“Natanael woulda flipped his wig if he knew I was out wearing this, y'know,” she said, fingers grazing the autographed Pittsburgh Pirates batting helmet perched on her head. Not too many people would remember Roberto Clemente nowadays, anyway, she figured. “Hey, you don't think this is too... 'Hey, I'm from a vault, please mug me,' right?”

“Er... the logo is a tad eye-catching, I would say. Perhaps some paint or tape would help tone it down?”

Oh, yeah. He'd definitely be pissed off at that.

“In any case, I'm sure Master Nathaniel would have wanted to ensure your safety no matter the cost.”

_Nathaniel. _She'd forgotten he'd programmed Codsworth to call them by their Americanized names. _It'll make us fit right in, Lola. You'll see,_ he'd insisted. So he'd introduced himself as Nathaniel, and went by Nate among his buddies, burying Natanael Cortéz Ochoa once he'd returned from Anchorage and settled in Sanctuary Hills. Despite her protests, he got Codsworth to pronounce her name the Anglo way: JOO-lee-ah, as opposed to the way her relatives and friends had called her, HOO-lee-ah. Julia Dolores Vidal Lebrón. Even his nickname for her would have been fine. 

“Mum?”

“Huh?” Crap. She'd spaced out the entire time he'd been talking.

“Erm, I said, 'That storm doesn't look too good. Perhaps we should seek shelter for the time being.'”

Shit, he was right. There was a rumbling, like that of a heavy cart out in the distance. A strange shade of green tinged the flashing cluster of clouds rolling toward them. She'd seen green skies during particularly heavy thunderstorms before, but this... this color was somehow drab and yet unusually bright. It wasn't until she heard her Pip-boy crackle— _What? This thing has a Geiger counter?_ —that she realized what it was.

“Mum! Quickly!” Codsworth was holding the door to an old truck stop open.

Once she shut it behind her, she peered out the window. An absinthe green haze washed over the landscape, sweeping past the bare tree branches and dead grass. Lightning and thunder crashed in the distance, and old papers, broken styrofoam cups, and other trash bounced over the ground like urban tumbleweeds.

She blinked in disbelief.

“It...rains...radiation,” she stated as if trying to convince herself of the reality. Then she looked over at Codsworth, her now bushy eyebrows arched. _“Still?”_

He hovered over to her side, pulling down the blinds with one of his claws. “I'm afraid so. Ever since the bombs fell. An unpredictable sort of phenomenon, I must say.”

That seemed far-fetched. Not the storm; it was happening right before her eyes, after all. But most things were predictable: weather, chemistry, history, people were predictable. Sure, there were variations, but foreseeable for the most part. There had to be a way to account for these radioactive storms by now. And if not, well... Improvisation was how she'd managed to survive most of her life, right?

What she hadn't been counting on was the radstorm lasting more than twelve hours. The last time she'd had anything substantial to eat had been five days ago, and she'd returned that insipid Salisbury steak to the ground as quickly as it had gone down. It had been those cloying Sugar Bomb things from there on, the kind of overprocessed garbage that stuck to the roof of her mouth. The room was beginning to spin, even as she sat in her own little corner, wrapped in her space blanket. She wanted grilled steak.  _Real _ steak, not that microwaveable hamburger shit she'd thrown up earlier. Oh, and a baked potato loaded with butter. To crack its skin open, to watch the steam rise in puffy little clouds with the scent of fresh earth filling her nostrils, to watch the squares of butter form a sunny little pool at its center. Freshly snipped green onions freckling the surface. Had she not been so dehydrated, she would have salivated from the thought.

* * *

Julia woke up to a cold, wet sensation on her cheek. It swiped past her jaw this time, then her nose, and _ugh_ it smelled like the festering liquid at the bottom of a city dumpster. Swatting her hand in front of her, her fingers tangled in...fur? The light of her Pip-boy flickered on and revealed none other than a wet, shaggy dog in front of her, tail wagging on the floor, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

She assumed he got in through the door, as it was ajar. So, where was Codsworth, then?

“I was able to find some mutfruit outs—No! No, no. Er... Shoo, you mangy mutt! Away with you.” The Mister Handy floated near the dog, holding some fruits in one arm, and swinging the other two at the intruder. “Apologies, mum. I could have sworn I'd shut that door properly.”

She shook her head in dismissal. Too lightheaded to be angry, scared, or do much about it. If the German Shepherd had intended to maul and eat her, he would have done so while she'd been asleep. He didn't feel too skinny, either, she noted. Though if she had developed an iron stomach as he had, her bra would likely still fit her properly, too. Food was easy to find when bugs, human corpses, and trash were options.

Holy hell, she was hungry. Past hungry. Seeing-spots, arms-made-of-wet-noodles, the-dog- was-looking-tasty kind of hungry. It'd probably be a pain in the ass to skin him properly of all that fur, but it would make a nice coat for the upcoming winter. If she boiled the meat in wine for a (which was probably vinegar by now) it'd get rid of the gaminess, maybe kill off some of the parasites. People had eaten much worse things in times of desperation, anyway.

But he was staring at her with those big, brown eyes, and that yellow-toothed canine grin and that over-sized pink tongue. How could she kill him and eat him when he was the first creature to look at her with so much unconditional love?

“Fuck!” She tugged at the brittle strands of her hair and slammed her head back into the wall, hard enough that she knocked a screwdriver off the shelf.

“Perhaps some food will help, Miss Julia. Please. Have some mutfruit.”

She had to clench her jaw to keep herself from making a disgusted face. What the hell was a _mute fruit? _It was small and a deep shade of purple and resembled a plum with tumors all over it. _More like 'mutt fruit.' _Bringing closer to her nose brought no foul smells—well, related to the fruit, anyway. Piercing it with the jagged nail of her thumb was like cutting into a citrus fruit, containing a pithy rind, with a soft, juicy tangerine-colored pulp. A rivulet of cloudy juice trickled down the curve of her thumb, and down her wrist. Her tongue darted out and caught it without a thought. Sweet, with a subtle spicy aroma reminiscent of persimmons. Hell, if she didn't know any better, she'd think this was just an ugly, mutated persimmon.

_Oh. Mute fruit. Like mutant fruit. Of course._

The first bite was heaven. If heaven meant eating real food for the first time in weeks. And she was. She took no time to appreciate her meal, devouring the fruit to her own pleasure like a clumsy, inconsiderate one-night-stand. With any luck, she'd live to properly taste one later, when her body wasn't busy consuming itself for energy.

She all but snarled at the dog when he got close to her sixth helping and stuffed the pulp in her mouth, cheeks stuffed like those of a hamster's before she realized how ridiculous she was being. The room stopped spinning a while ago and, although she was uncomfortable and sticky, the starvation-induced fog had cleared up a little.

“What are you doing out here by yourself, hmm?” she cooed, offering him the rest of it. He let out a happy, high-pitched whine and lapped it off her hand. _“Ay, bendito... Ten__ías hambre, ¿verdad? Pobrecito."_

"I... don't think he understands you, mum."

_"Pues claro que sí." _She decided to ignore Codsworth and continued to focus on the dog instead, carding her fingers through his dirty, matted fur. _"¿Verdad que sí?¿Verdad que t__ú me entiendes, papa?" _She grinned at him.

Some hours later, she gathered the strength to trudge back to the river to fetch some water—irradiated, her Pip-boy warned. But, if this dog had survived to adulthood in this environment, he was probably unfazed by it—to dilute the Abraxo Cleaner from the Red Rocket station. Once the aluminum tub was full and sudsy, the dog happily sat still as she scrubbed and poured the lukewarm water over him with gloved hands, singing an old song to herself.

"Good heavens, Miss Julia," Codsworth huffed. "If slobbering on you was all one had to do to get on your good side, I would have done so ages ago."

Was he sulking? Seriously? Funny that General Atomics and RobCo would make their products capable of mimicking some of the worst human emotions: namely, jealousy. Oh, but poor Codsworth had been putting up with her gloominess since she'd stumbled out of the vault, patiently waiting on her while she sat on her ass like a lump of shit, feeding her when she was too weak, reminding her to take her meds on time and to drink enough water, wandering the wasteland on her behalf to look for supplies. And all she'd done was shower him in icy silences and hostile looks. Julia sighed.

"I'm sorry, Codsy. It's just... He reminds me of a dog I had as a kid." A shorthaired, flea-infested, mutt she and her brother had found limping on the street. Their mother had thrown a fit when she saw it lounging inside the house and insisted it stay out on the carport. "We named him Como-Tú."

"Like me? You named him Codsworth?"

She snorted. "No. Not 'like you.' Como-Tú. Everybody had a dog named Como-Tú back in the day." A final pour of water washed away the last trace of suds and she let out a squeal when the dog shook off the remaining water off his fur. Time to towel him off.

"That all sounds...very confusing, mum."

"Yeah, that's kinda the joke there, Daddy-O."

By noon, she pulled down the shades again, shielding herself from the harsh rays, and went back to her corner for a quick nap where the dog was already snoozing. She wrapped herself up in the blanket and leaned back, waiting for sleep to claim her anew.

"Thank you," she said, eyes closed. "I know I haven't said it enough, but thank you. I couldn't do this without you."

Codsworth's eye stalks turned toward her and drooped, shutter-like pupils widening.

"I am just happy to see you smiling again, mum."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, all the chapters will be named after songs. No, they will not all be from the Cowboy Bebop OSTs, as great as they are. And yes, Como-Tú used to be like the name "Fido" or "Rex" for dogs back in the day in PR. Except it doubled as a corny pun. I had to sneak it in for the fam. I don't know too many people who still call their dogs by that name nowadays, though.


	3. Strychnine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heading to Concord in search for hope, Julia finds nothing but more bad memories, confusion, and unfinished business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titled after The Sonics' "Strychnine" (1965)
> 
> Warnings for gore, racist slurs, slight meta/fourth-wall breaking, ableism, and what some would consider desecration (again, just in case.)

Concord, Massachusetts. Or what was left of it. The name alone left a bitter aftertaste and it was spreading through her mouth the closer she got to the town center. Downtown. Dilapidated buildings, once quaint little shops owned by suburbanites, littered the streets. Off in the distance, she could see the broken white steeple of the church most people in Sanctuary Hills attended. Some of the balustrades were still intact, if not soot-stained; if it was still empty it could be worth a look just to see how far this place had fallen.

"Trouble ahead, Miss Julia."

She glanced from Codsworth to the popping sound of automatic guns. So that was what he'd meant by "rough." Yeah, no. This wasn't going to work for her. She'd have to wait until these hooligans cleared out. Couldn't risk getting shot over whatever they were here for: food, chems, whatever. She opted to take refuge in one of the buildings. That was until she noticed the dog missing. She could hear him barking, though.

"Where'd he go?"

Codsworth's eyestalks swiveled about until they focused ahead. "Oh, dear."

Following his line of sight, she sighed. The dog lunged at a Raider, latching onto his arm. The man tried to shake him loose, but it seemed it only managed to sink his teeth in deeper into his flesh.

"Mum, please don't—”

She didn't hear the rest of his sentence, as she bolted out of the building with her machete in hand. Probably something about not doing anything stupid, or some other form of stern counsel, but it was far too late. When the Raider lost his balance, she swung down and made a clean cut over his other arm. Just like cutting overgrown weeds out in the field. He was probably intending to use it to shield himself from the blow. But looking at it there, lying a few feet opposite him, a lot of good it did him. She didn't hear him scream. Just the blood rushing inside her ears, in her pulse. But from the pained snarl, she was sure he did. And so, she drove the blade into his throat and silenced him forever.

“Good heavens! Would you just look at yourself!”

Codsworth sounded a lot like her mom when she'd catch her playing in the mud outside barefoot. Her biggest threat was that she'd catch parasites through her feet or something. Sure, Mami . In air, earth, and water soaked with uranium, napalm and agent orange, the big  _Cuco_ was the stupid parasites. Julia scoffed at the memory and wiped the blood off her hands onto old (dead) man O'Shaughnessy's dirty overalls. 

She used the dead Raider's pants to clean the gore off her blade. Nice coat he had there, too. Real leather. Sturdy. She could use something like that. “Come help me get this coat off him. I'm cold.”

Come to think of it, there was probably some food in this scrap heap. Maybe some better clothes to wear, too. She vaguely recalled one of the housewives on her block managing a boutique somewhere in Concord. Or that's what she'd called it, anyway. Joanne's? Jolene's? Whatever it was called, as far as Julia knew it was a souped-up thrift shop. Oh, Mami would certainly be upset about her wearing a stranger's used clothes. Especially under a dead criminal's duster. She'd probably say something about the used clothes being haunted or something to that degree. Actually, she'd be even madder if she knew she'd stolen a dead White man's clothes from his house and worn them to loot a store. 

_Sorry, ma. Looks like I'm'a be disappointing you a lot today._

The air inside the boutique was stale, the door kicking up a cloud of dust and mold spores and who knew what else. A few naked mannequins stood at the shattered window displays, alabaster plastic bleached and warped from the sun. Strange. She'd been tempted to visit the place before the bombs fell, maybe try on a dress or two for the Anchorage Veterans' Ball. She could practically see the ghosts of the other housewives picking out dresses, all in pastel shades. A few had made snide remarks, she recalled as she paced through the knocked over racks and bins, but those had slid off her easily; she'd been called much worse. It wasn't until the owner decided Julia shouldn't waste her time, saying they wouldn't be carrying anything in her size, that she snapped and called her... Nope, her mom wouldn't have approved of any of that, either, come to think of it.  _ Guess I've always been a screw-up, huh? _

Rummaging through the storage bins in the back of the store, she'd found several clothes in near pristine conditions: men's slacks, dress shirts, sportcoats—she could always tailor them up herself during some downtime—a few trendy cigarette pants several sizes too small for her and  _ that.  _ In her hands, she held up a long-sleeved, buttery yellow, belted shirt dress. It was likely supposed to be worn with a crinoline skirt underneath. Of course, she wouldn't wear one. (Part of her was convinced tulle was invented by male colonizers to immobilize the indigenous wives they'd taken by force. Same with corsets, girdles and high-heeled shoes. The evidence for that set of beliefs, she admitted, was scarce at best.) Combined with the 2-button white and black polka dot gloves and the yellow chiffon neck scarf she'd snagged, she couldn't help the triumphant laugh bubbling in her throat.

“Erm, mum?” Codsworth floated closer, fidgeting with his claws. “Perhaps we should find you something to eat, yes? I'm afraid you might be a tad delirious.”

“Oh, pipe down and let me enjoy myself, would ya?” She was already trying on the clothes. “Back then I wouldn't've spent this much for some regular duds. But now?” She grinned. “It's free. It's all _free. _Because nothing fucking matters anymore, ya dig?” 

He didn't seem convinced. Too fidgety and quiet. Codsworth was anything but quiet.

“I'm fine. Really. I had some of those deviled eggs Como-Tú found earlier. I'm good.” She looked at herself in the shattered mirror and watched her smile melt away. “It's just...” She was free to do as she wanted. The oppression was over. Sure, she could wear nice clothes and walk around without being accused of being some kind of commie, or of trying to shoplift. And damn, did she look fantastic in this dress. But Nate was still dead. Probably bloating and peeling, trapped inside his broken cryogenic chamber. And Shaun, too. Chances were he was probably dead, too. Discarded on the side of the road like trash, like that little boy she'd seen by the sewer all those years ago in Vieques. She hadn't said anything then. Too young, too shocked. And right now, there were probably dozens of people passing by her baby's corpse, ignoring it. Not saying anything. Not caring. Because such was life. And like Americans used to say, '_karma is a bitch.'_

Gunfire alerted her to more troublemakers outside. What was she going to have to do to have a peaceful moment to herself? She peeled off the white gloves and replaced them with the leather ones she'd swiped from the dead Raider while she thought up of a plan. Her shooting still left much to be desired, so that wasn't even an option at this point. Machetes generally required close-quarters, unless she'd been taught wrong. Which left her with one option.

“You think you can find me some more booze?” she asked, eyeing the small amount of rum in her knapsack. Enough to clean wounds, but not enough for what she needed.

“I hardly think this is a time to get blitzed, mum.”

“Not for drinking, chowderhead. I just need flammable stuff. As in, more flammable than me.” The utility closet contained a few cans of oil, an old flip lighter—_score!_—wonderglue, duct tape: pretty much what a utility closet should have. And three cans of Mister Handy fuel. “Look, Codsy!” She held up a can, posing like one of the Nuka Cola girls. “I've got yum-yums!”

Codsworth groaned. “Glad to see you still have your sense of humor, Miss Julia.”

The counter behind the cash register was likely the most surprising so far. Aside from a set of unused cosmetics and hair accessories, there was an entire stash of vodka and whiskey bottles. “Oh, Jolene, how  _ scandalous,” _ she said with a mock gasp, before taking a sip of the vodka. Tasted like fire. Perfect. Now, all she needed was to soak some rags in the alcohol (and, wouldn't you know it? She was surrounded by clothing!), empty out the bottles, glue the wet rags to the bottom of the inside of the bottles, fill them with oil and  _ boom! _ Homemade grenades. (Were they still calling them Molotov cocktails? She supposed there was no one left alive to care about associating the name with The Reds.) 

“Look. You move more quietly, so here's what I need you to do: Help me take these bottles and pour them out in the middle of the street. It's on an incline, so anything we pour should trickle down.”

“And by helping you, you mean you do it myself.”

“Well, yeah. Who else is gonna build these bombs?”

He took a deep, completely unnecessary breath. Why they outfitted a robot with that function, other than for dramatic effect, was beyond her. “Fine.”

Her pocket knife made quick shreds of Jolene's fine surplus clothes and, admittedly, she had a lot of fun doing it. Not like the old bat would miss them anyway. As soon as Codsworth was done, they (she) assembled the Molotovs (Codsworth held the bottles for her) and tucked them into her knapsack. A tight fit, and some of her stuff was inevitably going to get ruined, but none of it would matter if the Raiders killed her. He was helpful enough to pour the excess oil outside in the same pattern before quietly hovering back inside.

From the chattering outside, they were starting to wonder what these puddles were.

Showtime.

Julia took a deep, burning breath. Anxiety, the stench of alcohol, and the lack of her proper dosage of steroids was doing a number on her inflammation. Oh, well. Couldn't think about that now. Either she lived long enough to fix it or died in the next few minutes so that it wouldn't matter anymore. Her hands wrapped around his chrome chassis and pulled him to her forehead.

“I need you to go to the roof and count to sixty. When you finish, light the bottle and throw it at the guy behind the sandbags. If I go down, you take the dog and you keep running home. And you don't look back. Not for a second. Ya dig?”

“I...” She saw his shutter-like pupils shrink, then dilate. “Yes, mum. I understand.”

She forced her cheeks and lips into the best smile she could give him, but she hoped he couldn't see she was trembling. “Good. Thank you, Codsworth. That is all.” She turned away from him. He and the dog were all she had now and, if she failed them... If she failed them like she failed Nate and Shaun and her parents and her birthplace, Julia would not be able to live with herself anymore.

Tying a spare yellow bandana around her nose and mouth, she headed outside. The darkness was enough to conceal her, and thanks to the worn duster and the matte finish on the baseball helmet, she didn't reflect too much light. She took shelter in another building, about 50 feet from the next Raider, and waited for the first Molotov to fire, counting silently to herself.

_Fifty-nine... Sixty. _

—_CRASH!_

But the explosion never came.

“The fuck was that?” she heard one of them shout.

Dammit, why hadn't it gone off? She peered through the broken bricks. Where was the fire?

“Over there!” The guy behind the sandbags pointed at the boutique. And now there were several of his goons going to investigate.

Julia gritted her teeth and lunged for the nearest Raider, slashing the machete across his back, then again over the width of his nape. “ _¡_ _Carajo, Codsworth! ¡Que lo enciendieras primero, dije!”_ The buffoon had forgotten to light it.

“Forgive me, mum!” Codsworth shouted from afar.

That her second kill of the night hadn't made much noise other than few blunt thuds, drowned in a multitude of footsteps and shouting, was sheer luck. With the flick of the lighter, she lit the doused rag, aimed at the sniper nest next to the museum and flung it like she was back in the Softball Little Leagues. Before it burst into a fiery hell, she dove back into a building.

No time to react. Two Raiders were heading toward her. She fell backward while loading her shotgun and accidentally shot it off, giving the Raiders pause. The more puerile compartments of her mind wanted to make a joke about premature ejaculation, but one of the Raiders was already lunging at her. And then he yelped. _Good dog. _It gave her enough time to aim the weapon at the towering Raider's head and blow a hole through his skull. The other one was fending off Codsworth's saw, which rained sizzling sparks dangerously near the streams of oil.

The dog. She pulled her last snack cake out of her bag and flung it in the opposite direction.

“Fetch, boy!”

Once she was sure he was out of harm's way, she smashed a Molotov right outside the building and watched as the trails of oil and alcohol blazed into rivers of light. Those taking refuge around the sandbags tried to escape it, though the sputtering oil gripped to any exposed flesh or flimsy clothing. And, if all Raiders were made equal, they didn't seem to be dressed for the occasion. That appeared to be the best option. Molotov, after Molotov, after Molotov—and if they got close enough, either a slug or machete to the head. Roast, slash and tear the bastards all to death so they would finally shut up.

And, eventually, they did. She could smell nothing but smoke and charred flesh, and her ears were ringing but at least it was quiet. Sort of.

Until some ding-bat decided to yell something from above the balcony. Her hearing was still fuzzy, and from the pooled streetlight she stood in she couldn't make anything out about their features, other than he was probably a dude, and he was dressed like fucking Howdy Doody.

“...settlers inside! ...Raiders almost through the door! ...musket and help us!”

A musket? People were using muskets nowadays? She expected those atomic pistols the military had been working on, but not _muskets._ Anyway, what was he talking about? There were guts, glass and at least six different guns sprawled across the street. Julia looked up and shrugged.

The man pointed a finger and she followed the line to a mangled body—not by her hands, nor by her boys' doing_. _No, this body had been here at least a day or two from the discoloration: deep purple pulled to where she lay face down, bone-white on the surface. What remained of her scalp was adorned in strands of hair like corn silk, and the remains of a cowboy hat. Must have been part of the guy's crew. Near her hand was a shoddy-looking wooden rifle with a fusion cell stock duct-taped to it. She pointed to it. _That? You want me to use that? _He had to be kidding.

The figure in the cowboy hat nodded, and added a quiet, “Please.” There was a shaky timbre to his voice, singing of desperation.

_Oh, what the hell?_

She picked it up, hailed Codsworth and the dog, and headed inside.

Inside the godforsaken Museum of Freedom. _That_ was what this place was? Her stomach sank at the sight of the banners, the colonial flags draped everywhere. Nevermind the yawning hole cut right through the center of the old 18th-century floorboards—how did everyone get to the top floor? Did someone blow a hole in this place on purpose, or was this just terrible architecture?—but there were creepy talking animatrons of some of the Founding Fathers, dead-eyed, dusty and clad in washed-out royal blue breeches and powdered wigs. She would have aimed for robo-Thomas Jefferson first, but a Raider caught sight of her. Luckily, her faithful dog was on it long before she noticed the goon.

The stupid laser musket needed cranking for it to charge and she had neither the strength nor patience to get it to work fast enough. Shotgun it was. A Molotov was probably a bad choice in this arena, wasn't it? It'd be like throwing a lit match in a barn full of hay. And, since Julia didn't believe in doing anything half-assed, she started at the basement, catching the thugs there by surprise.

“It seems like there's something of value in here,” Codsworth remarked, signaling toward a security gate. “You wouldn't know how to pick a lock, would you?”

Julia placed her hands on her hips and scowled. “You know, just because we're brown doesn't mean we _all _know how to pick locks and hot-wire cars, Daddy-O.”

“Oh! Apologies, mum. I didn't mean, to imply—”

“I'm kidding. Yeah, I know how to pick a lock,” she laughed. She carefully pulled a bobby pin from her braided bun and began working at the lock. “But not because I'm Puerto Rican.” Well, actually, that had been part of the reason. But only because she learned it in high school from another guy who lived in the mainland; he hadn't exactly been a stellar citizen. She decided Codsworth didn't need to know that. “Well, would you look at that?” she said wearily. “A Fusion Core.” Caps or chems, maybe a better, non-explosive weapon would have been nice. She did not need a fusion core. In the bag it went.

The way up to the top floor required some planning. Codsworth and the dog could sneak up behind the Raiders and either distract them long enough for her to get a shot or a blade in; or, in case they were patrolling the perimeter of the void, they could simply push them off to fall to their inevitably slow, painful deaths.

And goodness gracious, was this place in bad shape. Most of the staircases had collapsed, and she was left to climb to each subsequent floor through holes carved out by generations of termites. A burning ache spread through her biceps, thighs, and back. She was sure her feet were swollen inside her work boots; she could feel the flesh in her lower legs bulge out from the boots' opening. _Just a little longer. Push a little harder. And then you can rest. We find the settlers, we find Shaun, and then we can rest._

The idiot on the top floor had managed to get a battering ram. A goddamn battering ram. Again, how in the world had they gotten all this crap up here? She sucked at her teeth, getting his attention, and shot once. He fell right where he stood. It took a special kind of rat bastard to chase and corner a group of defenseless farmers in such a crappy building. And for what? They couldn't be holding anything of much value unless the bastards were avid seed collectors. And from the looks of the wasteland and these Raiders, she doubted that was the case.

Man, she was covered in blood. Not a good first impression. If her so-called luck hadn't run out just yet, maybe her dress hadn't gotten brain matter on it. Not yet, anyway. She wiped the blood spatter from her face and gloves with her bandana, removed her duster, leather gloves, and helmet, and replaced it with the gloves and scarf she'd hauled from Jolene. For a second, she considered thanking her once she met her in the hell she was destined for. But the second passed as quickly as it came, and Julia went for the door.

The telltale click of a weapon halted her for a moment. How did she know these “settlers” wouldn't try and mug her, too? Nope. She was done with surprises. Forget whoever was behind this door. The moment she opened it, her shotgun was in the person's face. And their rifle was in hers.

He wasn't at all what she was expecting: tall, yes, but not the least bit rugged looking, save the scar on the side of his face, and maybe some light stubble. He had smooth, relatively clear skin that reminded her of the red tiger's eye stone on one of her grandmother Celia's rings: deep and rich in its sepia color, catching the light with a silky luster. He had a straight, strong nose. And was Julia a sucker for a strong nose. Aaaand she was staring at the first non-hostile human contact she'd had in months. Well, shit.

Just then, the dog darted past her and into the room of settlers.

“Oh, wait!” She held out a hand for a second, like that would stop him. As if he were wearing a leash. Yeah, great. Shit. Double shit.

Since the guy she'd now deemed “Marlboro Man” (formerly known as “Howdy Doody” due to poor lighting and maybe a mild concussion) had put his rifle down, she took it as a sign to stroll in. The dog had cozied up to a frail-looking old White woman with large earrings that would have made her grandma jealous. There was another, much taller man leaning over a metal desk, sporting the classic 'ducktail' hairstyle Nate had so desperately tried to copy. Across the room, a dark-haired man was sitting down and hadn't bothered to look up from hugging his knees. There was a dark-haired woman of East Asian ancestry, Julia would guess, pacing with her arms crossed tightly across her chest. The woman scowled at her and muttered something to herself before continuing her pacing.

The White woman ran her knotted fingers through the dog's thick fur. She spoke in a heavy, languid New England accent, all her 'R' sounds melting in the middles and endings of her words, some of her end 'T' sounds sizzling.

“You're not what I expected Dogmeat would find in that little neighborhood. But, oh, so much better,” she said.

Was she shitting her? Julia had to reign in the stupefied gawk on her face. And then came the inevitable tug at her lips. Oh, no. Oh, shit. She was going to laugh in this old woman's face.

“Dogmeat?” she repeated. “His name is Dogmeat?”

“There are and have been many Dogmeats throughout history. And there will continue to be.”

What? So, Dogmeat was supposed to be the American Wasteland version of Como-Tú? That was cruelly ironic, wasn't it? Seeing as how she'd been considering eating the poor thing and making a straight-up roast out of him and all. She realized her mouth had been open, so she covered it with her gloved hand as she stifled the obnoxious cackle threatening to burst through her throat. Codsworth's exasperated groan only fueled her laughter. _Damn it, Julia. Be serious, here. _No one else was laughing, anyway. She cleared her throat and willed her expression back to its cool, professional state.

“Sorry... So, he's your dog?”

Apparently not. Dogmeat was just some dog, much like the strays everyone fed back home in the _barrios._ “But he chooses his friends and sticks with 'em. He'll stay by you now.” She leaned forward. “I _saw_ it.”

Okay. So _Abuela _Celia and this lady would have probably gotten along well. Always saying something semi-mystical, just vague enough to leave Julia wondering whether it was some sort of prophecy or drug-induced baloney. They would have probably sat together on Saturdays to watch Walter Mercado, do a couple of hits of reefer, maybe trade jewelry and drive Julia's religious mom crazy. So, she did what she used to do whenever her grandma went on one of her rants and nodded politely, trapped in a conversation she no longer wanted to have, but forced out of cultural obligation to listen to her elders.

Marlboro Man was staring at her. She stared back. _Please help me. I don't know what to do here._

“Man, I don't know who you are, but your timing's impeccable.” He held his hand out to her and she shook it. Good. He'd read the distress on her face. “Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.”

Preston. Interesting. Not a name she was used to hearing.

“Julia Dolores Cortéz.”

His lips faltered, failing to catch all those sounds. Right. He wouldn't be used to twisting his face that way.

“Julia Dolores,” she repeated. “Cortéz.”

“Cortéz?”

“Uh-huh.” But he wasn't quite getting her name. “Julia Dolores.”

Cortéz? Why was she going with her married name, when it wasn't even her legal name? Nate was dead. And she was a widow. Cortéz no longer had a place with her. She shook her head, took a pen and scribbled her name down. Julia Dolores _Vidal. _She would've written her full name out with both surnames, but her patience was wearing thin already and just the one would save an hour-long lesson on a culture that likely had ceased to exist. “I prefer my maiden name, anyway,” was her excuse. She didn't need to tell him her life story, though she was sure she gave off the impression of some angry, runaway housewife in this getup she had on. Therefore, before he could pry, she beat him to the game. “So, Minutemen, huh?”

Preston went on to explain the group's ideals. From the way his dark eyes lit up when he spoke, he truly believed in them, too. A romanticized version of a colonial militia, fighting off the powers that be. What powers? Was she missing something? One could not, as a former coworker put it, “stick it to the man” if there was no “man.” Helping people at a minute's notice, expecting nothing in return. All for the sake of being good people. Lovely as it seemed, it sounded way too good to be true.

When the taller man with the greased hair—Sturges, he said his name was—told her about their escape plan involving a vertibird, she had to clench her jaw to avoid shouting, “hell no,” in his face. (She'd flown once, though not exactly on a vertibird, when she moved to the mainland, to Newark, New Jersey. After she'd met Nate, he'd tried to convince her to fly again when they decided to move to Concord and she'd obstinately refused and made him drive all the way to Massachusetts instead.) Sturges then explained about the old power armor and the minigun, and then she had to hold back a sigh of relief. Preston then pointed out the need for a Fusion Core.

And, oh boy, did she have a fusion core. She held it out between her gloved fingers, noticing the strange juxtaposition of greasy metal against dainty lace. How fitting.

“How'd you get to it?” Sturges asked. “I couldn't get that damned gate to open!”

She glanced at Codsworth. He'd better keep his metallic little voice box shut. “Bobby pin,” she replied.

“Well, I'll be damned.”

All she had to do, Preston said, was place it in the power armor and it should start up on its own once she got in. Yay, tightly enclosed spaces. As she was leaving for the roof, she finally noticed the banner on the top floor: more stylized images of Revolutionary War men. Slave owners, racists, men who would have had no qualms in stringing her and Nate up for so much as looking at them in the eye... painted as heroes. Men, much like the Spaniards who'd invaded her homeland, who took and took and took from the indigenous peoples, from her ancestors, as if they'd been entitled to it by birth. And here, they had an entire museum dedicated to them, without the faintest mention of their crimes against humanity.

That was the thing about war, though: the winners got to dictate history, color it over with their version, paint over their indiscretions. But the average people, those simply trying to live another day? Those who were caught in the middle, who simply wanted to be left alone? They paid the highest price. They were shipped off involuntarily, like her father, like Nate. Their crops and goods were commandeered “for the greater good,” “for the troops.” Those not in support were branded traitors, cowards, communists, spies. There were no museums dedicated to the farmers trying to feed their starving families, nor the parents trying to nurse their children sick from poisoned air back to health, nor the patients tricked into testing out the effects of biological or chemical weapons, nor the generous souls willingly sharing what little they had with their neighbors. People like Nate, soldiers wounded, maimed in wars not their own, might have gotten medals, but couldn't get a decent fitting prosthetic leg. Nor a cure for the screams lodged inside their minds. Where was Private Natanael Cortéz's museum? Where was Corporal Umberto Vidal's museum? What about Arístides Beauchamp?

The fusion core popped in and the power armor hummed to life. It was way past midnight now; no doubt the Raiders would all swarm in like the radroaches they were. And they did, spraying bullets at her like they were watering their front lawn. The minigun's kickback was easier to tolerate with the armor. That, and she had to admit she got a thrill out of turning the Raiders into tomato puree.

But, as the adrenaline rush drained from away from her bloodstream, the reality of her actions hit her like a speeding city bus. That guy she'd cut down when she first arrived. She'd slashed him to bits like a pot roast. And those people she'd fried to death. She had killed dozens of people, with her own hands, in a single day, without giving it a single thought. How was she any better than those men she hated, the very system she'd fought against? What had she done? Had the power armor not been holding her up, she would feel her hands start to shake. A monster. She was a goddamn monster.

An echoing, guttural roar vibrated around her. That was no animal sound she'd heard before. She landed on the pavement, power armor making a solid clank against the pavement as she investigated. And when she found it, she immediately wished she hadn't. There were legends of the chupacabra in the Caribbean and Latin America, with Abuela Celia being part of its evangelizing fanbase. If there had been such a terrible cryptid, then this bastard was probably its descendant. The reptilian creature rising from the manhole was easily ten feet tall, with claws and spikes and horns bigger than her head. Its eyes were clouded over, but from the way its nostrils twitched, she knew it was aware of her, of where she was. Of what she was. And she was prey.

Instinct made her shoot off the minigun. The way this thing was leaping and swiping its razor-like claws, she had to empty the entire clip into it. How was such a massive creature this agile? The metal frame made dodging its blows that much more difficult, and more than once she fell over, only to roll away from being impaled against the cobblestone. Its claws shredded the pavement into pebbles and sand with every hit.

This was it.

She was going to die here.

A flash of black and tan raced across her eyes and toppled the mutant reptile over. Dogmeat. Julia scrambled to her feet, grabbed the gun. Dogmeat's body flew in the opposite direction and the whine he made felt like a sharp stab to her heart. And so she kept the trigger pulled. Hard. And it rained and rained sparks and bullets and scales and flesh until there was nothing but a pool of blood around her and a deathclaw carcass riddled with bullets.

She felt the pressure leave her ribs when she exited the suit of power armor, felt her hair, once in a braided bun, unravel from its pins and smack her spine with each racing footstep she took toward Dogmeat. He was alive. Limping, but alive. Poor baby. “Oh, thank God,” she sighed. He followed her and Codsworth back upstairs, and she inspected his broad paw. Scratched, bleeding a bit, but didn't seem to be broken. Nothing half a stimpak wouldn't fix.

Unsure of whether to be insulted or flattered with Preston's surprise at her survival, she eyed the heavy pouch of caps and fusion cores in her hand. More fusion cores. From a world that idolized strips of paper and sources of oil to a new reality where old bottle caps and batteries were more valuable than life itself. Now wasn't that a kick in the head?

“I didn't exactly do this for money,” she said. Though payment for putting her hide in the way of certain death was sure appreciated. “But fine. What now?”

“For the longest time, Mama Murphy's had a vision of a place called 'Sanctuary.' Some old neighborhood... but one we can make new again.”

_Oh, no._

“Sanctuary,” she echoed. “As in, Sanctuary Hills?” No. No! Why could she never escape that place? It was almost as bad as hearing Shaun's phantom crying at night. She felt her stomach turn and freeze over into a solid block.

“Ah... Yeah. Little town, due south from here. It's got potential. You know of it?”

Yeah, no. She was not going to have a fit in front of these strangers. Nope. She picked at her cuticles. Picked and picked and picked until they bled. Wait. Where had she left her gloves? “You could say that.” Did she drop them outside? Or had she left them in the power armor?

“Well, why don't you come with us?” Preston asked. “I could really use your help.”

NO. No way in hell was she going back there. Not to the nightmares. Not to the flashbacks. Not to flaming bags on her porch, or the word “SPICS” spray-painted in red across the side of her house. Was she sweating? Where were her gloves? Her rash was going to get worse if she didn't cover up. And Preston was looking at her with those big brown eyes, with an expression that could give Dogmeat a run for his money.

“I have some business to finish here first. But...” They'd die. If the wasteland was full of Raiders and Preston was the only one protecting these people, they would certainly die. And it would all be her fault. She hollowed her cheek in thought, then released the suction with a pop. Damn guilt. Stupid morals and values and doing the right thing. “Alright. I'll meet you there. What do you need me to do?”

“You need to stay strong. Like you been,” the old woman, Mama Murphy, said. “'Cause there's more to your destiny. I've seen it. And I know your pain.”

More cryptic babble. Was this lady always this high, or did she actually believe half the crap that spouted out of her mouth? What did she know about _her _pain? She wouldn't come close to knowing. Back in her day, Mama Murphy wouldn't have experienced half the pain Julia had. Just what in the hell did she know?

She willed a deep, calming breath and knelt in front of the seated woman.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, inwardly cursing at the shakiness in her voice.

“You're a woman out of time. Out of time.” The old woman grasped her hand. “But all's not lost. I can feel... your son's energy. He's alive.”

She was bluffing. Right? It was all a circus trick. She could probably see the softness lingering in her torso through the bodice in the dress and assumed she'd had children before. So, then, why were her eyes burning? And how did she know she had a _son,_ specifically, and not a daughter? That wild instinct took over and Julia was grasping at Mama Murphy's bony hands. Was this some joke? Was she playing a trick on her? She was so close, she could smell the cabbage and aldehyde smell from her body odor, the alcohol and wet-soil-scented Jet in her breath.

“Where is he? Where is Shaun? Do you know where he is? Who took him?”

“Oh, I wish I knew, kid. I really do. But it's not like I can see your son. I can just...” She freed her hand and waved it vaguely. Her grainy tone felt like she was waving off a petulant child. “Feel his life force, his energy. He's out there. And even I don't need the Sight to tell you where you should start lookin'.”

Julia released her other hand, dropping it back to her own lap.

“The great, green jewel of the Commonwealth. Diamond City. The biggest settlement around.”

Diamond City. Was that supposed to mean something? She had only lived in Massachusetts for maybe three years, but she was sure Diamond City was not a place near Concord.

“Please,” she whispered. “Ma'am, I've got nothing. I need more than that. _Please.”_

“Look, kid. I'm tired now. Maybe you bring me some chems later, the Sight will paint a clearer picture.”

She sat on the floor. This old woman was swindling her for drugs. Shaun was alive, but he was missing. And she wouldn't tell him anything else unless she forked over the chems that helped keep her semi-functional. Did she have anything to spare? No, she was running out of Buffout. In a few days, she wouldn't be able to move from the pain for a while until the swelling in her muscles and joints receded. There was Med-X in her bag, nestled between both pairs of gloves_—_there they were!_—_but it was the only thing keeping her walking through the burning ache.

The group was arguing in the background about something or the other. She wasn't sure. They were just loud and she was too out of it to pay attention. While she should have been glad to have an excuse to skip out on escorting them to Sanctuary, she was in a fog. Shaun. Her baby. He was alive.

God, the crying. Why the crying again?

She squeezed her eyes shut as if the pressure would squeeze the unwanted hallucination out of her ears.

“Mum, do watch your step!” Codsworth's arm was barring her from falling through the pit in the middle of the museum.

She hummed. Couldn't quite talk, but she took a loose hold of his cold metal arm and before she knew it they were on the bottom floor.

Funny. Two years before the bombs she'd been in this same spot. The disgust she felt now had been a sharper disdain, a sort of hatred burning in her chest. And she was unable to do anything about it. She'd discovered she was pregnant only a few weeks before the assignment. Whatever act of revolution her heart told her to commit, the immense potential of guilt had been like a rusty steel anchor. What if she hurt her baby? What if she gave birth in prison and they gave her baby away, or put him in the system? What if they blamed Nate and executed him with her? What if the chemicals gave the baby a birth defect? There had been too many variables for her to account.

She remembered looking into Beauchamp's green eyes that night, telling him she couldn't go through with it, mascara stinging her eyes and running down her face. And instead of berating her, what'd hurt the most was the warmth of his hand on her shoulder. The knowing smile on his lips. Had he known? She hadn't told anyone yet. Not even Nate.

“_No te preocupes, mija,” _he'd said. Don't worry about it, kiddo.

The mission had failed and he'd comforted her for failing.

“Mum? Are you feeling alright?”

She wiped the tears away, took a deep, painful breath and gave him her best impression of a smile. “Yeah. Just reminiscing. That's all.” A sniffle rattled in her nose. “You mind waiting for me outside with Dogmeat? I... need a minute.”

“Of course, Miss Julia. Take all the time you need.”

She didn't deserve that robot. Programmed compassion or not, he'd been her only verbal friend for the past month and a half. Too bad. She'd have to abuse that compassion one last time tonight.

After her arrival to Concord, she found she was in surplus of explosive and flammable materials, taking up such precious space in her knapsack. Space that could be used to acquire goods for herself, for Dogmeat and Codsworth and, should she be so lucky to find him, for Shaun. Yes, she decided should rid herself of such excess items. And the plan to do so was two hundred and twelve years in the making.

“Were you able to make peace, Mum?” Codsworth asked as she exited the building.

She tugged him along hurriedly, not bothering to hide the peals of laughter in her chest, until the three were at a distance she deemed safe.

_Dos... Uno..._

Had she not been holding onto Codsworth, the explosion's shock wave would have sent her flat on her back. Old brick and rotten wood planks fell around them, while flames waved out of the windows like the limbs of a tree in a hurricane. That breathless ache was back in her sternum, and still, she gave a quick bark of a laugh.

“Yes. Yes, I was.”

The fire and heat were sucking the air around them into the inferno, feeding and growing like the monster it was. At one point, she lost her helmet in a gust of wind. Ah. Whatever. The spectacle in front of her was more interesting at the moment.

“_Misi__ón cumplida," _she murmured.

Not low enough, apparently.

"What mission, Miss Julia?"

He hadn't known. Nate hadn't known, either. And now, no one ever would. While she was turning to face Codsworth, she locked gazes with Preston, who, she guessed, had looked back to see what that loud explosion had been. She couldn't quite tell what his expression was. Surprise? Confusion, maybe? _What mission, indeed._ Her lips curved into a smile, and she finally looked at Codsworth.

"Don't worry about it, kiddo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julia is a ball of repressed anger and regrets and there is nothing holding her back now. Somebody save the Commonwealth.
> 
> Walter Mercado was a famous astrologer in Spanish language TV starting in the 1950s until the late 2000s and most people's grandmas would not allow you to speak while he was on screen as it guaranteed a chancla to the face. He retired a few years back and he currently goes by another name now, but that's a whole 'nother story I really don't wanna get into.


	4. Don't Bother None

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia wreaks havoc and commits random acts of kindness across the Commonwealth. Diamond City isn't as glamorous as its namesake but she isn't surprised in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titled after Mai Yamano's "Don't Bother None" from the Cowboy Bebop OST.

And she'd thought the birth defects on Vieques were bad. Julia was convinced she was staring into the eyes of a two-headed hairless cow. Child-like curiosity urged her fingers to pet it, made them itch just to touch, but the paranoid adult in her insisted it probably had a smaller, secondary set of toothy heads in its mouth, much like the moray eels of the Caribbean. Her cousin Tito had lost three fingers to one of those suckers. Julia decided she needed her all of her fingers and forewent petting the animal. It was probably not too happy to have a heap of junk strapped to its back.

“So, what's your story?” an unseen woman asked from behind, and Julia nearly screamed from fright. “Looking to trade, rob me, or just ask directions to Diamond City?” Once her heart slid back down her throat and into her proper place, she noticed she was short, approximately in her 40s, with closely cropped hair and thin lips on a wide-set mouth. She wore a dirty blue jacket with the words “Trashcan Carla” crudely written in ink across the breast-pocket, and she sat on a pile of rubble and trash. For a moment, Julia'd thought she was wearing a vault suit.

That didn't matter. Shaun came first.

“Diamond City. Where is it?”

The woman scoffed. “Directions. Figures.” Her voice was nasal, with all the ennui of a teenager, like she'd seen it all, done it all and was just waiting for the next interesting thing in her life. It was safe to assume that was not an uncommon attitude these days. “Just keep going until you see the skyline, across the river. You'll find the _'Great Green Jewel'_ just inside the city limits.” Her hands lifted to make air quotes with each syllable. People still did that? Weird.

As if she had been waiting for her the entire time, the woman stood up to leave. Just how did this cat guess she was going to Diamond City? Was she spying on her? Did she know the people who'd killed Nate and taken Shaun?

“Hey, wait. Uh... Carla.”

“Need to pick something up?” She didn't spare her a single look while she tightened the straps on her beast of burden. “Road's pretty long from here.”

_Ask. Ask her. Ask her what she knows._

Carla glanced up at her with the weariness of a New Yorker whose time was being wasted. Yup. This was definitely the North. She might as well restock here. With any luck, she'd have something semi-edible that wasn't molerat. The carrots, corn, and Buffout were good finds. The frag grenades, mines, and that rare copy of Grognak, however? Priceless.

Down the road was another vendor, clad in a strange orange suit. Hold her he chiefly sold armor, and she was happy to take some off his hands. Never knew when the next deathclaw was going to decide to waltz in her life. Just down the street, stood a small, Victorian house just past the Drumlin Diner, nestled in the fog. Dogmeat skittered ahead toward the open door, letting himself in as if he owned the damn place.

“Halt, boy!” Nothing. “Dogmeat, come!” Nope. “Dogmeat!”

A haggard-looking woman with silver-streaked hair came out into the porch, shotgun in her hands and a scowl tugging at the deep creases age had carved on her sun-tanned flesh.

“This mutt here yours?”

A thousand apologies, along with all the formal, polite niceties she'd grown up with piled up in her brain, in her throat and she was, once again, left feeling speechless. She nodded, finding her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth all of a sudden. “Ah... Yes. Sorry. I just got him and I haven't quite had the time to train him properly.”

She grunted, her dark eyes scanning her from head to toe, then darting toward (she assumed) Codsworth. “Well, you here for a check-up or something?”

Julia echoed “check-up” dumbly. What checkup? “A... medical check-up?” Did doctors even exist out here? There had to be. But what medicine would they use? Granted, some of the tinctures Abuela Celia made were good for simple things like coughs and scrapes and the common cold. But she wouldn't have trusted her to amputate a leg or to administer the belimubab injections she needed to keep her body in check.

“Hello?”

“Oh. Sorry... Sure.”

The woman glanced behind her. “Mr. Atkins, do you mind if I examine another patient here?”

A traveling doctor. Those were rare even pre-war during her time. They had mostly visited the wealthy, and she had never fallen in that category. Mr. Atkins probably consented, since the doctor had her come in.

“I'll need you to pay upfront, first off.” Brutal. She held out her hand, wiggling her liver-spotted fingers against her palm.“Two hundred caps. Sorry, kid. If I kept going around giving chems for free, then there wouldn't be any for the next patient who'd need 'em, get it?”

Two hundred it was. At the doctor's request, she undressed and changed into an oversized short-sleeved shirt. Julia nearly laughed when she asked what symptoms she'd been having. Where would she even start? The nearly constant state of fatigue and pain? The patch of missing hair that had forced her to wear her hair in a constant low braid just to conceal it? The chest pain? The big ass rash snaking down her ribs and arm and_—_

Her rash.

She held out her bare arm and noticed it was... clear? No red scaly patches. No pain when she moved it. Under the shirt, she could feel a few patches of it over her ribs, near her armpits and shoulder... But her arm was pretty much clear, and the patches she did have weren't bleeding. What in the world was going on?

“That's quite the condition you got there,” the doctor_—_Doc Anderson, she insisted_—_said. “I haven't seen this outside of the prewar books, to be honest with you.”

“I don't understand. I haven't had the right dose of Buffout in a week. And it ain't like it's been consistent. Shouldn't it be worse?”

“What? Do you want it to?”

Touche. That had been a dumb question. But, still.

“Look, SLE used to be treated with radiation in Pre-War days. Welcome to the Commonwealth, honey. It's all radiation here.”

Julia blinked. Radiation. The fucking radiation. No, that couldn't be right. Well, she guessed a lot of those canned, pre-packaged foods were irradiated. Plus the water from the river. Not that she'd drank it, but she'd washed stuff in it. And the storms? This place was supposed to kill her. She was supposed to find Shaun, make sure he was safe and happy, and then die. Whether it was from being mauled to death by one of the mutant creatures, Raiders, from the lupus eating her organs, or from inevitable cancer from all this toxicity, she was meant to die. And now she was supposed to believe she was getting _better?_

“Now, I'm not saying it's cured it or anything,” Doc offered, “but it seems to be slowing down your immune system enough that it's not attacking you as aggressively. That's what it looks like, anyway.”

She scoffed. But instead of laughing, the muscles of her face were contorting under the hot, stinging sensation of tears. No, this made no sense. Radiation therapy was supposed to be controlled and measured and dangerous and she was supposed to sign a waiver that it might give her cancer, and pay five million dollars for one dosage of poison.

“You can get dressed when you're ready,” Doc said, leaving the room.

But it was too much. Really? She was getting better? Everyone she knew got vaporized or kidnapped or murdered or starved to death and all it took for her to start getting better was for the entire fucking world to end. Holding her spine up was too much and she lay herself down on the cold hardwood floor. Her chipped nails scratched at her scalp and forehead and cheeks. No, no. Her chest. It was tight and it was too much and she couldn't breathe and everyone was dead and she didn't deserve it and the room was spinning and her baby was dead_—_

Hands pulled at her arms, repositioned her head. Something icy on her forehead. Doc Anderson saying something. Julia fiddled with the plastic dice in her pocket, squeezed them tight. Looked behind at the figure standing at the door frame. When _Papi _had gotten back from the war, shell-shocked and angry, Vieques only made him angrier. Sicker. Whenever the Naval base tested out a new bomb or grenade or sprayed that silver iodide, he'd scream and scream for hours. When they moved to Ponce on the main island, he'd been so much thinner. Leukemia, the doctors said. Exposure to radiation from proximity to the base. The Navy denied it could have caused it. And they denied it until the world ended. _Papi _never did get treatment, either. Hated doctors, he used to say. Broke Abuela's heart to see her boy withering like that.

Her mind slid into lucidity, face to face with Doc Anderson (who was holding a bowl of melting ice in her lap) and next to her a bald man with no nose. Not just a flat nose like Papi and Abuela's. _None._ There was a hole in its place. No nose. None at all. No skin, either. Well, maybe it was skin, only burned, connected to his bones in thick, gummy ropes. Yeah, that's what he looked like: a severe burn victim. His sclerae were dark, surrounding eyes that might have once been light brown.

“What? You've never seen a ghoul before?”

Oh, shit. She knew better than to stare, and yet that was exactly what she'd bee doing, wasn't it?

She shook her head.

“You an outta towner, then?”

Out-of-timer, more like. But that was neither a word nor worth the time it would take to explain to a stranger. “You could say that.”

* * *

The Commonwealth was more populated than what she could have imagined. Tiny settlements dotted the map on her Pip-boy like the freckles on her nose and cheeks. And, she discovered, they needed help. Constantly. Of course, they did. The one benefit of urban living, in her opinion, was having everything close by—whether that consisted of neighbors, food, hospitals... so-called “law enforcement.”

One interesting settlement, Greygardens, was an agrarian commune of Mister Handy robots, working together to maintain the greenest piece of land Julia had seen since getting defrosted. Fruits and vegetables—ones she recognized for once!_—_neatly dangling off verdant, sturdy branches and vines, or peeking from beneath a blanket of rich black soil. Their request for help getting cleaner water would have been a cinch (and that Eva Gabor-wannabe robot certainly had made it seem that way)...had the water treatment plant not involved giant mutant crabs and real-life Incredible Hulks.

The three of them were mid-fight against them when the air around them started throbbing. At least it got the mutants' attention, too. A vertibird? Who the hell was flying a vertibird?

“Incoming, Miss Julia!” Codsworth cried.

The copper glow of a missile caught her eye.

“Oh, shit!” Shit! Who was going around in one of those and throwing missiles all haphazardly? Luckily, the door to the plant was open and she, Codsworth and Dogmeat were able to hurry to safety.

Supervisor White had not been exaggerating when she'd said this place was filthy. If only she knew. Cholera-infested waters. Great. That was exactly what she needed in this godforsaken wasteland: another bout of cholera. Had it not been for her previous experiences as a child with governments not warning citizens of their shitty water processing, she would almost certainly die if she caught the disease again now.

The turrets were simple enough to disable, as was clearing the standing water; computers had been part of her job at Med-Tek, mostly inputting data, a bit of coding...among other things Beauchamp's cell may have needed. The more unpleasant part was wading through the debris-covered walkways to get to the three remaining pump control switches, all while avoiding the giant _jueyes _snapping at them. _Oh. Jueyes. _It'd been a while since she'd had a good crab fritter or a crab cake. The trip started as a cleanup run and ended up as a hunting (crabbing?) trip.

“They're not crabs, Miss Julia. I believe they're _mirelurks.”_

Wasn't stopping her from carving out their meat and packing it in strips of cloth. If she could only find some salt, she could preserve it until she could get herself some flour and cooking oil. Back at Greygardens, she was able to buy some oil. Good enough to fry the crab. Mirelurk. Whatever it was called.

“Darling, so good to see you! You fixed our water problem, didn't you?” If Julia didn't know any better, she'd think Supervisor White was flirting with her.

“In all good conscience, I still wouldn't advise you use it. Honestly, I'd just build another filter to run the pipes through first.”

“Another filter? A marvelous idea, darling! And generous, too! Do let me know when you are done.”

“Uh, wait_—”_

But, just like that, she was gone and Julia was stuck figuring out how to make a water purifier with all the scrap metal she'd collected. Codsworth obviously had one, so taking a peek inside should be helpful.

“Absolutely not. I may serve you, mum, but I have my dignity.”

“Oh, c'mon, Codsy!” She whined. She sat crosslegged on the floor and smacked her legs in a mock tantrum. “Please? This might be _the place _for food, and if we can improve their crops, it means better food, get it?”

“I don't know if you've noticed this, Miss Julia, but I don't _need _food.”

Ugh. Jerk.

She dug into her bag. Mister Handy fuel she'd picked up at Jolene's. She grinned.

“Yum-yums?”

“_Please. _I couldn't be more full.” He swiveled his body away from her.

“What's it gonna take? I'll polish your chassis. Gosh, I'll _paint _your chassis. You'll have the classiest chassis among all Mister Handy-kind!”

Ooh, there was an eyestalk... And another.

“What kind of paint?”

“Anything you want. Grognak, a dragon, flames...”

He turned away again for a moment. Processing, looked like. “Alright, Miss Julia. I will allow you to look. But don't _touch _anything. You've blown up a bit too many things for my liking.”

“You don't trust me?” But she was already unscrewing his chassis loose. “You wound me.”

* * *

“I cannot believe you blew it up. The entire building!”

“You can't?” Julia asked, more incredulous than Codsworth.

“It was the only surviving Corvega factory in the Commonwealth!”

“Do you see any cats driving cars around these parts, Daddy-O? It was useless anyway.” Even if she could have gotten one back to working conditions, it'd put a giant target on them. And the way those things tended to explode, she might as well have been riding on the _Little Boy_ straight out of the old Enola Gay, waving a cowboy hat in the air. “It was the quickest way to get rid of those scumbags. Besides, did you _see _the grin on that settler's face? Have you ever seen a settler smile before? Because I haven't.”

His disapproval be damned, the Oberland Station settlers had been ecstatic to know the Raiders who'd been harassing them were all dead. They'd been so generous to spare some tatos and carrots to make her a gumbo with the mirelurk meat she'd harvested.

“Mum,” he said, sliding in front of her to cut off her path. “I realize you are...still processing all you've been through and adapting to this...new world, of sorts. But I simply cannot have you setting the entire world on fire and putting your life at risk. I joined you to protect you, and to find Young Shaun. But if you continue to be so reckless, I cannot be any part of this.”

Hm. That didn't feel so good. Cold. It felt cold, all over her arms and her legs, and deep in her gut, but unbearably hot in her throat, her cheeks, her eyes, and nose. He was ditching her? But, she'd thought that maybe... Julia sniffed. This was fine. This was completely fine. It was his choice and she could see the skyline off in the distance already and if he wanted to go, then, that was fine.

“Hey, why don't you go back to Sanctuary and wait for me and Shaun?” she asked, once she could steady her voice. “I'm sure those Minute maids will need your help in getting settled.”

“_Men, _Miss Julia. Minute_men.”_

So much for making him laugh. “Sure.” This was for the best. He'd be much happier there. There was clean water in Diamond City and she'd find the asshole who took Shaun and then they'd go home, she'd remake their lives over and everything would be...fine. “I'll pick up some spray paint and stencils while I'm out, so think about what you want, 'kay?” Her voice was small. Too small. Damn.

If Codsworth owned feet, she could have seen him shuffling them awkwardly as he sorted his thoughts.

“I'll be fine. Really. Diamond City's right there. Go home. Relax a little.”

“If that's what you wish, mum.” After dispensing a few last cans of purified water for her, he turned, flitted down the dusty path, and Dogmeat whined after him. Eventually, he looked at her again. She hoped it didn't have anything to do with the dog. “Please... Stay safe, Miss Julia.”

She was not going to cry again. She was not going to cry.

“Yeah. You too, Codsworth.”

“And you better keep her in line, too, you mangy mutt. Or you'll have me to answer to.”

Minutes later, she couldn't spot his circular little frame on the horizon anymore, and it felt like a hollow breeze in her chest.

* * *

Had anyone told her the skyline was what used to be Boston, she would have hesitated to come here. But had anyone had the decency to warn her of the super mutants loitering the streets, she would have been thankful, and not have needed to change out of her outfit (including, unfortunately, her underwear.) They were like talking deathclaws, with smoother skins. Even by the time she walked through the city gates, she could feel her hands and legs vibrating, knees buckling whenever she stepped over a chipped cobblestone. The referee-looking guards hadn't even lifted a finger to help her fight the mutants, nor had their turret systems activated. _City life never changes, huh? _And as if Murphy's law hadn't received its satisfaction from her yet, a sheet of rain began to pour all over the city.

She stopped at the bronze baseball player's monument, blanketed in a turquoise patina. Wait. She knew this place. Boston. A stadium. _Fenway? _Brick walls and green gates: check. Green Monster wall: check. This was Fenway-Fucking-Stadium and it had been turned into some kind of metropolis. Julia scrubbed at her face, just to feel something other than the numbness from the sheer amount of change and shock and... It was too much. All of this was too much. Another deep breath. _Shaun. _She was here for Shaun. _Focus. Rein it in._

A few feet away she could hear a disagreement between two citizens: a young, pale woman in red and... an intercom? The man speaking through it sounded like he needed a raise and a beer. Maybe a nap.

“What do you mean you can't open the gate?” the woman in red said through gritted teeth. “Stop playing around, Danny! I'm standing out in the open here, for crying out loud!”

“I got orders not to let you in, Ms. Piper. I'm sorry. I'm just doing my job.”

“Just doing your job? Protecting Diamond City means keeping me out, is that it?” Her arms gestured wildly, like one of the cab drivers in New York Julia had pissed off once. “Oh, look,” she mocked, “it's the scary reporter! _Boo!”_

The security guard apologized wearily. Something about the mayor being upset over some article or whatever. Figures. Politicians were all the same, even two centuries in the future.

Piper squeezed her fists and let out a growl. “You open this gate right now, Danny Sullivan! I live here. You can't just lock me out!” But the way she sighed, it was as she knew there was no way in hell she was getting back in. Poor kid. She imagined being a reporter—a good, honest one—was difficult. Five-year-old Julia once told her mom she had wanted to be one when she grew up; that was before she saw those reports about a string of missing journalists, one after the other.

“_You,”_ Piper whispered, and Julia realized she'd been staring at the woman. “You want into Diamond City, right?”

“Uh...”

“Shh! Play along.” Piper shot her a wink from underneath her red leather cap. “What's that? You said you're a trader up from Quincy?”

Oh, Lord. This kid really wasn't good at this.

“You have enough supplies to keep the general store stocked for a _whole month?” _She gasped but waved her hand for Julia to wait and see. Some master plan she had cooking up, or whatever. “You hear that, Danny? You gonna open the gate and let us in? Or are you gonna be the one talking to crazy Myrna about losing out on all the supply?”

Julia pinched her flat nose bridge. This had to be the worst acting she'd seen since that last Charlton Heston film she'd watched at a drive-in.

“Jeez, all right. No need to make it personal, Piper. Give me a minute.”

Had her jaw dropped any lower it would have made a hole in the ground. That was all it took? What kind of security were they running here, anyway?

“Better head inside quick before ole' Danny catches on to the bluff,” Piper said, nudging at her side with her elbow.

The way Piper described Diamond City to her was the way a writer would describe it: romanticized words, “the green jewel,” ideas of starry-eyed dreamers making a name for themselves in a city with basic necessities. But her tone was flat, joyless. Like she knew the truth behind the glitz and pomp of the city's facade. “Love it or hate it,” she laughed in a mirthless sigh, “You'll see for yourself, soon enough. Let's go.” Piper went ahead of her, hands in her pockets.

Not much farther past the ticket stands, an old man in a tan double-breasted suit and matching fedora began yelling. What was it with the yelling? Everyone always liked to yell. Julia wasn't the yelling type, she didn't think. She'd rather do something, fix things, get it over with, and move on. Codsworth might have disagreed, but he wasn't exactly next to her anymore to challenge that assessment.

“Why don't we ask the newcomer?” Piper asked, waving at her. “Do you support the news? 'Cause the mayor's threatening to throw free speech in the dumpster?”

No. No, no, no. Why was she dragging her into this? She came here to find her kid and then go home, not start another war. But they were both staring at her now, the mayor and Piper.

“I like the truth,” she replied, and her voice sounded dry from thirst. “And I hate politicians.”

The mayor's large hands rose and he gave some hodgepodge, placating apology about bringing her into the argument and how all politicians weren't alike and how great his city was, blah, blah, blah.

“Look,” Julia interrupted. “I'm trying to find someone. A child. Kidnapped. You helping me, or not, _Mister Mayor?”_

“Whoa, did you say 'kidnapped?'” Piper asked. Her tone was one of hunger as if she'd just found her next big story. Julia was starting to dislike her opportunism. “Well, McDonough? Diamond City Security going to investigate this? How about all the other kidnapping reports you been ignoring?”

Oh, well, if kidnappings were a common occurrence here, then it made sense that Piper was so riled up about it.

“Don't listen to her. While I am afraid that our security team can't follow every case that comes through, I'm confident you can find help here.” Useless. Completely useless and predictable, all of them. Just like the pro-colonialist cops denying the bombings in Jayuya and Utuado. For some reason McDonough was still talking, chatting up his city as if he were selling it to her.

“This is ridiculous! Diamond City Security can't spare one officer? I want the truth, McDonough!” Piper jabbed an accusatory finger out at him. “What's the real reason security never investigates any kidnappings?”

“I've had enough of this, Piper.” He pointed right back. “From now on, consider you and that little sister of yours on notice.”

“Little sister?” Julia asked. Her eyes narrowed, teeth grinding. Her feet were taking her forward on their own.“Did you... just threaten a child?” Piper's sister could have been an eighteen-year-old for all she knew, although the elder didn't look a day over twenty. That she was a child was a fair estimate, in her opinion.

She hadn't thought it possible for his skin to blanch more, but it did, his lips flapping like those of a fish out of water as he retreated from her.

“You're supposed to be protecting your constituents... Mayor McDonough, was it? And you're threatening a citizen and her kid sister? A _child?_”

McDonough dug his heels in and his neck went from paper-white to purple with rage. “I could have you thrown out of here right now, you dirty vagrant! How dare you? Security!”

The guard was peeling himself off the wall. _Shit. Think quick._ A distraction. Something big. A scandal. Take the pressure off herself. Dump it all on him. A piercing shriek rattled from Julia's throat, and she curled her arms over her breasts. People were starting to glance. Good. “Don't touch me! I'm not that kind of girl!” _Think sad thoughts. Shaun. Nate. The little boy in the sewer. _Her eyes started watering up just in time for her to fake a sob.

Piper shifted on her feet, like a chihuahua ready to spring into action. She jumped up and stabbed a finger in the air. “Yeah! Don't you touch her, McDonough! She just wanted your help!”

Murmurs flitted around the gathering crowd. _Checkmate, you son of a bitch._

“I trusted you! I just wanna find my baby,” she cried, and... Well, maybe she wasn't faking it anymore. She did want to find her baby. She was tired and sick and hungry and her feet had oozing blisters and everyone she asked wanted something from her and she could barely stand on her own feet and...

“Hey,” came Piper's voice. The warmth of her hand spread on her back. “You alright there?”

The crowd had gone back to their normal business of selling and buying and generally ignoring everything. McDonough and the guard were nowhere in sight. As far as she could see from her bleary vision. She could feel her eyelids, hot and heavy, tears threaded in her eyelashes. Piper was kneeling on the floor next to her. She must have fallen. Again.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said quietly. “For standing up for me and for my sister.” The way she fidgeted with her fingerless gloves told her she was going to ask _the_ question. “Is it true? About your kid?”

Julia nodded.

Her full, wide mouth set into a thin line. “I'm sorry. I don't think I can help you find him, but I can take you to someone who can. His name is Nick. Nick Valentine. He's sort of a... private eye.”

Nick Valentine. Now, why was that name setting off a bell in her head? Whatever it was, Julia decided it was time to get her ass off the sidewalk.

“Come on,” Piper said. “He's just over this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She had to do it to 'em.


	5. I'd Rather Go Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia meets Nick Valentine, the synth detective. When their hunt for Conrad Kellogg leads to a dead-end, Dogmeat saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titled after Billie Holiday's "I'd Rather Go Blind."
> 
> Warning for mentions of racism and colorism.

When Piper had offered to take her to see Nick Valentine, Julia hadn't expected to have to rescue the detective from a mob boss, his sociopathic moll, and all his goons. Darla couldn't have been older than nineteen, hanging around a middle-aged mafioso like Skinny Malone. Why throw away youth for a good-for-nothing like that? Best case scenario, he'd end up dead after a heist gone wrong. Worst case, she'd be there with him, riddled in bullet holes. Or maybe they would make it. But she knew men like Malone, always looking for the next thing. The moment her age would start to show, or, god forbid they had children and she gained a little weight, he'd be on another impressionable teenage girl. Fortunately, Darla had brains enough to leave his predatory ass in that Vault where he belonged and went back home to her parents.

Speaking of Nick... She couldn't stop staring. As much as the guilt told her to look away, she had never seen anyone like him before. Piper had been kind enough to inform her, after the fact, that “android” was considered a slur these days, so Julia made a note not to ever use that word again and, whenever she got the chance, to apologize for saying such a thing. Still, with all those broken plastic panels over his face and neck, the exposed metal framing, the glowing Jensen light yellow eyes, and the one skeletal hand, Nick was a sight she found she had to get used to. There were times during the interview when, just to distract herself from the pain of reliving Shaun's kidnapping, she wanted to ask if she could get him some duct tape.

No amount of deflection could numb the agony of being so helpless, so useless. The memory of bruising her fists against the glass, crying out to the kidnappers in vain until her throat was raw, the loud echoing shot rendering Nate completely still forever. Oh, God. And she'd just left him there afterward. What kind of a spouse was she?

Then there was that face. That jagged raised scar across the eye.

A hint of concern creased Nick's bare brows, tugged at the fine lines of his lips. “Couldn't be... You didn't hear the name 'Kellogg' at all, did you?”

_Ha. Like the cereal? No, this is no time for jokes, Julia. _Truthfully, she couldn't recall much, other than what she had already told them. “I... I don't know. Everything's so foggy.”

He asked his assistant, Ellie, about some case notes and, though Julia was staring off into nothing, she could hear pages crunching and turning. “The description matches: bald head, scar, mercenary... But no one knows who his employer is.”

“Didn't he buy a house here in town?”

Ellie's brown eyes got even bigger like she was having an epiphany. “And he had a child with him. The house in the abandoned West Stands. The boy with him was around ten years old.”

Ten years old. The number knocked the wind out of her like the time that softball had hit her right in the solar plexus. Ten years. “But Shaun's... He's eleven months old.” Not even a year old. Oh, my God. He would have been a year old in a week. And she was going to miss it. The realization made her heart and breasts and stomach ache for all different reasons. She had to touch something, ground herself. Anything. This was a nightmare. A nonstop nightmare. Could she wake up now? Could it be over? She was done now. “God, _ten years._ I missed nine years of his life.”

His first words. Seeing him start to crawl and cruise and stumble around in his first steps. Missed him falling asleep in her arms, smelling of that peculiar baby sweat. Someone else had done all that, she hoped. Was he happy? Was he safe? Did he even need her anymore? He wouldn't know she existed. He wouldn't even know Kellogg was his father's murderer unless Kellogg was that much of a sadistic son of a bitch. But he was alive! Shaun was alive and so close by!

“Don't jump the gun on me now. It's always possible he has a son of his own, or that it's someone else's kid. Either way, they both vanished a while back.”

It was like Nick had pressed a pin into her balloon of hope and she was watching it squeal and flop around, leaking noisily until it lay dead and flat at her feet. The room felt like it was moving.

“Let's you and I take a walk over to Kellogg's last known address. See if we can snoop out where he went,” Nick said, and Julia felt like she could breathe again. Maybe there was a clue to where he was. Maybe there were pictures or any kind of trace of his existence. Crayons, drawings. She'd take them all, even if they were terrible; she didn't care. She was desperate at this point.

Ellie and Nick said something while he and Julia were on their way out. She didn't care enough to respond. She was getting closer to Shaun. Did he like to draw? Or was he more of a reader? Or maybe he liked blocks. She should get him some blocks. Oh, but what if he didn't want to come with her? What if he thought of Kellogg as a father? Was he good to him? Oh, she wasn't sure how to feel about that. She hadn't considered what Shaun would want.

“I didn't want Ellie to hear this, but I think you should know: Everything I dug up about Kellogg before his disappearance is bad news,” Nick said, interrupting her trainwreck of thought. “He's more than just a mercenary. He's a professional. Quick, clean, thorough. Has no enemies, because they're all dead... Except you.”

“Guess I'm about to become the most dangerous bitch in the Commonwealth, then.” If he was good to him, then it didn't matter whether she lived or not. But if he hurt him, _God_, if he hurt him then she was going to make Kellogg wish for death. Either way, someone was going to die soon. Either way, someone's suffering would end soon.

Nick seemed confident Kellogg was their guy, though it made no difference to her. It could be a devoted nun for all she cared. Someone was going to be praying for death soon.

The house in the West Stands wasn't impressive, though that didn't surprise her. It avoided suspicion. Just another house in town. It was a perfect cover. When Nick couldn't get the lock open, she was happy to pop it open with some oil and a bobby pin.

He looked at her, bare eyebrows raised in a question: _How did you learn how to do that?_

She shrugged. Didn't everyone know how to pick locks nowadays? How else did they get what they needed outside the city?

It was empty inside, other than some rusty furniture, old fliers scattered everywhere, and dust specks floating about like snow. Her gloved fingers swiped over a wall where the sun had burned the outline of a paper onto the paneling. Too small to be a poster. Julia wanted to imagine it was a picture, scrawled on with waxy crayons, of a stick figure with a huge smile on its face, some crude green lines on the bottom for grass, and a banana-yellow sun on top. That it had been Shaun who drew it while humming a song to himself. Had Kellogg taken it with him? Had his happy little picture existed at all?

“Place seem small to you? Figured a guy like Kellogg would think big.”

“No one managed to find him until after he moved, so it worked. Hiding in plain sight is the way to go.” It was how she'd managed to stay undetected: a shy girl in a college town, meeting a local soldier boy about to get drafted, settling down in some podunk, sleepy suburb. The illusion of the so-called “American dream.” Had she been several shades lighter, with straighter hair and dominant European features, they wouldn't have suspected her at all. There was that one time when Beauchamp and she got interrogated for their involvement with HalluciGen and MedTek. But he could easily pass for one of them, so they'd let him go. Even when she'd insisted she was pregnant and wouldn't have participated in that case of arson (and she hadn't, not that one), they'd held her another 18 hours in the precinct. Nate had insisted they'd only been doing their job. There were so many things about Nate that had been lovable. His blind faith and unquenchable desire to fit in were not among them.

What was missing here? She poked around the desk. Mostly empty drawers with the occasional paperclip or receipt or thumbtack. She got on her knees, feeling at the desk's legs like an overeager drunk at last call. A button. She pressed it and the room began to rumble beneath her feet.

“Well, that's one way to hide a room,” Nick said. A wall behind him had opened up to reveal a smaller room. From the racks of junk, Kellogg had used this as a sort of storage. Probably kept all his Institute crap in it, too. Upon closer inspection, though, it was just crap: cans of food and water, some ammo, some weird brand of cigars. Someone was watching from the corner of her eye. Her fingers were quick. Once she got her aim right, she realized it was just a mannequin. A mannequin. Who kept a mannequin around in the house, if not to mess with people's minds? She swallowed her pulse back down and lowered the shotgun.

There was nothing. No sign of Shaun. No sign of where he'd gone. Her eyes began to sting, but she wanted to laugh. Laugh at how stupid she'd been to believe she could find Shaun so easily.

No. Things couldn't just end this way. She'd come too far, worked too hard for this to just stop at a dead end. _Gotta keep looking. _There was a cigar, not even an eighth of the way finished, resting on the ashtray next to the chair. His mouth had been on it. Maybe they could track him by his saliva.

Nick seemed to think getting Dogmeat was a great idea, so she promised to meet him at the gate with him in tow.

* * *

Piper seemed thrilled when she came back. She really was like one of those fancy lapdogs, wasn't she? She supposed she should be happy she hadn't tried to lick her face yet.

“How you holdin' up, Blue?” she asked, nudging her with her elbow.

“Blue?”

“It means you're a vault dweller,” Nat shouted from the couch, nose buried in a magazine. Oh, right. The suits. She'd rather not remember. Neither the suits nor the Vault. Part of her was wishing she hadn't told them about it.

“Listen. I want an interview.” She waved her hand across an imaginary front page. “Your life story in print.”

No. Just...no. “Yeah, I don't think that would make too great of a story.”

“C'mon! I think Diamond City would benefit from an outside perspective on the Commonwealth. You do that for me and I promise I'll help you and Nick. We get it out there, then we can rally support from every corner of the Commonwealth! Think about it!”

People were innately selfish. Julia doubted that had changed after plant-life went essentially extinct. But she believed that Piper sincerely believed in the cause. Just as she once had believed in the cause she'd been fighting for: liberation and peace. And now she knew for a fact those things didn't exist. And if they did, they were elusive and volatile.

Then again, if there was the slightest chance anyone could offer more information on Shaun's whereabouts, then...

“What's this interview about?” Ugh. She asked. Too late to go back now.

“I ask you who you are, get your opinion on life out there, and maybe load up a few tough questions and keep it interesting. What do you say?” She gave her a prize-winning smile. Piper was a pretty one, she'd give her that.

Julia attempted to smile, but it felt like a plastic snarl. “...Okay?”

“Good!” She clapped her hands together and darted for her notepad. “Let's get down to business.”

The first question was simple enough. What Vault life was like. Wasn't much to it, and she'd already explained her predicament on the way to Nick's. “They froze us. So, we didn't spend much time in the Vault. Not consciously, anyway.”

“Right, right. I forgot to tell you: I'm totally gonna name this article 'The Woman Out of Time.' It's gonna be great.”

_Sure. _Another uncomfortable smile while Piper scribbled her notes down. She reminded her of a bird, too. A hummingbird. No, a cardinal. The quick, twitchy movements. Fast, fast, fast. One topic to the next. Had to keep moving.

“So, you've seen the Commonwealth. Diamond City. How does it compare to your old life? Before the War?”

This one was harder. People seemed to still be assholes. Just poorer, dirtier, smellier. The rich kept getting richer. The poor kept dying off in droves or killing each other. Probably not what Piper was going for, though. “Well, I'm surprised people managed to rebuild their lives after what happened. So... that's good, right?”

Her thin eyebrows rose and she nodded as she wrote. She guessed that was a good sign. “Now, the big question: What is your baby's name?”

Julia took a deep breath. Baby. He was a ten-year-old, or older now. But she couldn't focus on the time she'd lost; she'd never get that back. She had to laser in on the time they could have together from now on. “Shaun. My son's name is Shaun. And he was kidnapped while we were frozen.” She recounted the story to her, glossing over some unnecessary details and Piper soaked it up, hazel eyes wide and rapt with attention. She thought she saw them blur up with tears.

“The parent after the missing child.” She sighed, though it almost sounded like those laughs one did to stop from crying. “As heartbreaking today as it ever was.” She paused for a second and wiped at her eye with the back of her hand. Wore her emotions on her sleeve. Julia could appreciate it. It was refreshing to see someone so honest with themselves. Especially when she'd spent so much time hiding who she was. “Tell me. Do you suspect the Institute is involved?”

She pressed her lips together. Was Kellogg with the Institute? She had no way of knowing. “I'm... not sure. Last I heard he was seen with a man. About 6 feet tall, White, bald, scar over his left eye.”

“White? Was he a ghoul?”

“A wha_—_no. Uh... You know. Like you.”

“He looked like _me?”_

Julia sighed. This world. Fuck this entire world and its newness and oldness and everything in between. She was supposed to be getting Dogmeat to follow this bastard, not chatting up the press. “He had a light complexion. As in, not like me. Like you and McDonough and, I dunno... _most_ people in the Commonwealth.”

Piper shrugged and wrote it down.

_Oh my God. _She took a deep breath. It wasn't her fault the old government liked keeping everyone in neat little boxes to sort out like items, nor that most prewar people's idea of someone who looked like her or Nate was a loud, uneducated, unemployed welfare leech with six kids, and that those very stereotypes that kept humans separated tinted her view of life. It was neither Piper's nor Nat's nor Julia's fault that people who looked like Piper back then followed her around stores to make sure she wasn't stealing, made fun of her hair when she hadn't straightened it, of her skin when she hadn't lightened it or when she got too much sun_—_and Mami would have been mad at how much sun she'd gotten. It wasn't their fault someone decided people like her shouldn't breed and made that decision for her and people who looked and talked like her, taking advantage of patient-doctor trust to ensure that it wouldn't happen again. And it wasn't their fault that they were the descendants of those people and lived in total ignorance of what she'd been through, or of those categories, of those stereotypes, and got to live their lives without once thinking about their skin color other than to pick out cosmetics when they could afford them.

Goddammit, she was bitter.

“For the last part of our interview, I wanna do something different: I want you to make a statement to Diamond City directly. The threat of kidnapping is all but ignored n the Commonwealth. Everyone wants to pretend it doesn't happen. What would you say to someone out there who's lost a loved one, but might be too scared, or too numb to the world to look for them?”

“People seriously just ignore kidnappings out here?”

She laughed dryly. “Yeah, Blue. You haven't noticed? You grow up in the Commonwealth, and eventually, someone is going to get taken. Maybe not someone you know, but someone” Her fingers formed air quotes, “ And people just say, 'well could've been worse. Could've been killed by Raider attacks or Super Mutants or Feral Ghouls.' They just give up.”

They just gave up. Sounded about right.

“So I want my readers to hear what keeps you going.” Her voice started to crack. Got smaller, like maybe this was personal. “Maybe they'll find a little inspiration. Now, what would you like to say?”

Piper truly believed in people, didn't she? Once upon a time, that would have been enough for her to go places. She would have been great. Prewar, she could have been the first female news anchor and Julia would have cheered her on. She managed to pull her cheeks up into a remnant of a smile. “You're gonna want to give up a lot of the time. But hope... Hope's what keeps us alive. That hope that you'll see them again. Or, at least, that you'll know the truth. You can't give up. Don't. Keep going. Push through.”

She nodded. “Strong note to end on, Blue. Thanks. Aaaand that's everything! It's gonna take some time to put this all together, but I think your story is going to give Diamond City plenty to talk about.”

“Sure.” Now, for Dogmeat. “Listen, I got a lead on this guy. I'm gonna take Dogmeat with me.”

Nat moaned in protest, wrapping her wiry arms around his neck.

“He'll come back to visit. I promise. I just... Well, I need you both to stay safe.” Especially after that threat McDonough had made. “Can you promise me that?”

“Can _you?”_ Nat replied. Smart girl. She decided she liked Nat, too. She could have probably been her daughter, if not for... Well, no use in thinking about that now.


	6. Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storming Fort Hagen goes awry and Julia is no longer sure she can do this anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titled after The Ink Spots' "Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall" ft. Billie Holiday
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains gore, multiple references to pregnancy/childbirth/miscarriage, heavy drug use, and a racial slur.

Her lower leg cracked and snapped and she saw nothing but white-hot pain before she hit the floor. What happened? How had she not heard that Super Mutant? And holy _shit, _her leg. Her hand went for it and her torso protested. Her arms went to grab it on instinct and the other screamed and tugged with a ripping ache. Oh, this was it. She was going to die. Fuck childbirth. This was worse. There was no progression. This was all at once. Oh, God. Death. Something kill her now.

She vaguely registered the explosions and gunshots, crawling on one arm and a leg toward whatever would hold her up. But the slightest movement was agony. Fuck. Fucking fuckety shit fuck hell.

_That attitude's gonna get ya killed one day, mija, _she heard Beauchamp say. Fuck him. He was dead. Why wasn't she? Fuck.

Shaun was bright red and screaming in her arms. She was tired.

This hurt. _Fuck. _Breathing hurt. There was fire everywhere. She wished she was on fire. Then there'd be hope. An end. Her mouth tasted like metal. She was gonna die here. Shaun was 300 feet away in that fort. And she was going to die out here. A joke. Life was a motherfucking joke.

Yellow eyes like terminal buttons stared at her. She tried pointing at her bag. Stimpaks. Had she gotten the words out? _Figure it the fuck out._

Nick said something about her leg. Sure. He could cut it off if it would make it stop. She'd just hop in all one-legged and hug Shaun and Nick could help her find a replacement for her leg. But half his face was missing. Did he not know a guy? She would have laughed if it didn't feel like something was stabbing her lung. Looking down, her leg was not the way it was supposed to be. She did not have two knees on one leg. She was flexible but not that flexible. He grabbed her leg, looked in her eyes. _Oh. Oh, shit. Okay. _He was talking but she couldn't hear him. Not really. She made a nodding gesture. _Do it. Whatever. Just make it stop. _

Something soft and dry in her mouth. Cloth. The hospital had given her a pencil to bite on. Cloth was nicer. Made the metal taste go away.

Her hand grabbed something wiry. Squeezed it. He was counting.

Another snap and there was white light and then pain, pain, pain fucking pain and she wanted to die. Fucking fuck. Holy shit.

He was talking again. Something about a stimpak. Sure, she'd take a stimpak. Or six. All of them. Give her all the fucking stimpaks. There was pinching, but nothing like her leg. Like her ribs. Or her arm. She looked at her arm. There was a chunk of wood sticking out of her arm. A vampire. Haha. She was fucking Dracula. Why wasn't she turning into ashes?

Mmm. Warmth in her veins. Felt good and cozy and friendly. She liked it. Wanted more. Wanted to feel like this all the time.

* * *

The air was sour and hot and burned her eyes and nose. Smelled like _bistec encebolla'o _with extra black pepper. The blacktop was scorching under her feet, but she was wearing her uniform Mary Janes and the frilly socks Mami insisted on. There were papier-mache characters and streamers everywhere. People were running. Playing hide and seek? She liked hide and seek.

“_Corre,”_ a voice croaked out.

“_Papi, _why you on the floor?” she asked. Colorful flowers were growing out of the bloody cavity in his chest. So many of them. It was a bright bouquet.

“Beautiful, aren't they, _Pitirre_?” Beauchamp was standing behind her, that silver fox, and she was in the office. He picked a flower off Papi's wound, gave it a good sniff, placed it behind her ear. It smelled like gunpowder and tamarind syrup. “For you.” He always did know how to make her heart race. She reached out for him, but his hands were water and they started to drip and everything was loud again. He never did let her get close. It was like he knew.

She was at the beach, the waves licking at her bare feet and there were explosions behind her. She was wearing that hat Mami got her for Easter Sunday with the pink satin ribbon, but the wind knocked it off her head and it flew away into the ocean and, oh, she was gonna be so mad. But the baby's breath growing out of the flyaways in her hair and edges were pretty enough.

Mami yanked her wrist and yelled and pulled her over the footbridge and the little boy's corpse was playing dominoes with Noodles down by the drain. Noodles was such a smart cat! She tried telling Nate, but Nate hated cats and said he had to stay outside because cats were bad for the baby.

Mr. O'Shaughnessy was teaching her math class inside her house and the baby inside kept kicking her lungs. “What's eight times seven, spic?”

Julia was on top of her desk, dancing in her slip and brand new tap shoes. “Fifty-six!”

“Wrong!” The ruler slammed on the desk.

“It's, 'yes, sir,'” Nate whispered. He was sitting next to her.

“We don't even go to the same school, silly,” she laughed and then she kissed him, and the top of his mustache tickled her lip. Beauchamp was holding her in his arms. Of course. Nate didn't wear a mustache. Made him look too ethnic, he said.

“Don't worry about it, _mija_,” he said and wiped off his lips. Didn't he like it? He let go of her hand and placed it in Nate's hand.

Nate was so handsome in his uniform. But this wedding dress was so itchy and big, she could barely move. “Just go with it, beautiful,” he whispered in her ear. His voice was so soothing and his body was so warm and comforting, like a blanket.

There was an IV hooked up to nothing over a grave in a church. A crowd had gathered around a tiny coffin. Whose funeral was this? Mami was looking over at her sadly, shaking her head, looking like cancer had eaten her up already. The IV was hooked up to Julia's arm now. Oh. Had she died? How sad. And she never did got to see Shaun.

The grass was wet and cold under her knees and legs. Wet from rain and tears and sea spray. Julia wiped the snot from her nose and reached for the coffin. The lid was stuck. There was a lock on it. Rafa, her six-year-old little brother, knelt next to her and stared at her. The gunshot hole in his forehead was leaking mercury over the coffin like a broken thermometer.

“You gotta jiggle it open,” he said. How did he know English?

“I tried! It's stuck.”

“Well, then, you gotta sing, _mija!”_ Abuela Celia said. Her, too? “It's probably just shy, like you.”

“Oh, okay...” She tapped at the coffin in tempo. “_Some folks can lose the blues in their heart, but when I think of you another shower starts... Into each life, some rain must fall, but too much is fallin' in mine..."_

And just like that, it creaked open. Who was in there? She peered closer. A curled up fetus, with gnarled skin and blisters. Its black eyes opened and it rolled onto its back. It hissed, showing yellow teeth and lunged at her before taking a bite out of her arm.

Julia woke up and Nick was next to her, regarding her with concern.

"Want another dose?" he asked. "That was just a quarter dose, what you had there."

She tried taking another breath and she felt that sharp ache in her rib again.

“Yeah, I gotta... I think... I'm pretty sure I broke a rib, too.”

* * *

Each step she took was excruciating, like a splinter digging farther and farther into her leg. The Med-X was numbing a lot of it, but not enough. Nick had promised to take care of the long-distance stuff, which was, as it turned out, most of it: turrets and skinless synths bent on destruction at Kellogg's behest. There were the occasional explosive devices she could disarm, and the terminal she could hack, but she was starting to feel nauseated and dizzy and had to hold onto a wall for support. Droplets of sweat were falling from her forehead onto the concrete floor.

She couldn't give up. Not when Shaun was so close.

“You need a rest?” Nick asked. “What hurts?”

“Everything.” Wasn't that the understatement of the century? The simple act of breathing was sending spikes into her side. Fuck it. There was only one way she was getting through this. Rummaging through her purse, she pulled out two syringes: Med-X and Psycho, to make Slasher. It'd numb the pain and make her fast enough to make up for lost time. She could deal with the damage to her body later, once Shaun was safe. The gawk Nick gave her screamed of disapproval.

“Doll, listen, I know you're rarin' to get this bastard, but we can take it slow. Don't do—“

“—No, you listen to me.” She pointed. “That is my son in there and I'm gonna go get him. No matter what. Now, if you're going to help me, I need to inject these at the same time. But if you're not... Just take my caps and go back home.”

He looked like he was debating it and that was fine. She'd meant it. What she was asking him to do was more than the average human would do, and he'd followed her here without a single complaint. If he wanted to bail with the caps, she wouldn't resent him. She liked to think she'd have done the same thing in his shoes.

Instead, he grabbed the Med-X, the more responsible choice and held it until she was ready to inject it alongside the Psycho. Fucking needles. Why did everything need needles? She'd discussed pill form at a meeting, but then the hypodermic needle industry would have collapsed, her bosses claimed! Collapsed! _Focus, Julia. _

The mixture of chems was like that time she'd clumsily missed the outlet with the plug and brushed her finger against it instead: a hot current running through her veins, her spine, her legs, her head.

There were sparks everywhere. Gunshots. Synths. Gone with a swipe of the machete.

Someone spoke. Loud. Made her angry. Where was Shaun, already?

More synths and turrets and fucking furniture. The fucking furniture, why was there furniture in her way? Had to break it, move it. Out of the fucking way.

That annoying voice kept talking and made her want to strangle the next living thing, feel its throat snap between her fingers like a crisp wafer. Shaun. Where was Shaun? Why was Shaun not here? Did he have Shaun? Was it Kellogg? She'd kill him. Oh, she'd kill him and have him beg for mercy.

Her head and leg and arm and chest hurt again. The room was bathed in the red of an emergency light and she couldn't breathe again. Her fingers wrapped around an insulated pipe for support. Her leg. Couldn't do anything with that leg. And she was so close. Her baby boy. Just in the other room. She could do it. If she could just get another...

Fuck. She was out of Med-X. Nick probably had the rest, but it didn't matter. There was plenty of Buffout. Psychobuff would ensure she had the strength and lack of pain she needed to see him. So, just this once. Again.

Synths and lasers and more synths and turrets. Loud. Everything was so loud and wouldn't shut the fuck up, so she shot enough rounds at a speaker to make sure it wouldn't talk again. It was taking so long. So motherfucking long and there were doors to unlock and it was taking too damn long, didn't Nick realize?

There was a man. Bald. A scar on his eye. Talking. Kellogg. She'd kill him.

Where was Shaun? Why wasn't he here?

He was laughing so she hurt him, tried to make him cry. But he kept laughing and laughing and laughing. She had to stop him. So the stock of her shotgun hit him and hit him and hit him and it was red and gooey and crunchy and all sorts of fun, like kindergarten. Except no one was laughing anymore.

The pain returned with a vengeance and the blurred corners of her vision cleared up. And it was shades of red and black. Her hands, her clothes, the puddle of mush pinned beneath her. Like that second-trimester miscarriage, she'd had before Shaun. And now she'd never know. Oh, God. What had she done? What had she just done? She was a monster.

Arms went around her, strangely cool but the chest was warm. Murmured something about Med-X and she nodded. She was off the ground and then she was lying on a flattened cardboard box. Nick put his jacket over her. Smelled like motor oil and cigarettes.

Julia let the warmth of sleep swallow her whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping the brisk pace and clipped wording reflected the blitzed-out headspace she was in after all those Psycho chem cocktails.
> 
> Julia cries, vomits and passes out a lot. 
> 
> Also, if a scene from one of the companion stories gets overlooked in this main story, you can assume it either a) didn't happen or b) that it didn't have much of an impact from Julia's point of view. Unless you're romancing that companion, and then it did! Make sense, or nah?


	7. Disparate Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While recovering from the ordeal at the Memory Den, Julia meets three new potential allies in helping her track down Shaun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titled after Santigold's "Disparate Youth."
> 
> Warning for mentions of rape.

The journey to Goodneighbor had been a blur with a stabbing headache between her ears and eyes, and the base of her neck. The gaudy neon pink and blue signs and noisy denizens weren't helping the pain, either. One tried approaching her, selling her insurance or whatever and like the true Jerseyite she was, she kept walking. There was a store up ahead. Maybe they'd have something for her head.

That was until he touched her. She couldn't have that shit. Oh, no, sir. It may have been an effect from withdrawal or a lingering side effect from whatever was left of the killer cocktail she'd taken back at Fort Hagen, but the butt of her machete's sheath crunched against the guy's nose and she heard him cry. But fuck him because she needed water and pills and she needed them now, goddammit.

"Uh, hi," she muttered. "Got anything for withdrawal headaches?"

The person manning the counter was a ghoul woman from what her double vision could tell, and she slid over a pack of Addictol over to her with a can of purified water. As designed, they took approximately sixty seconds for it to clear her eyes, ninety to ease the tension headache ripping her brain asunder.

"Thanks. What do I owe ya?"

She smiled at me. "On the house, dear."

"Oh. Well, thank you." Kindness flustered her, as much as it had been instilled into her. _Be kind but never be a burden, _was the old family motto.

"Rough day?" she heard a gravelly voice say behind her.

Another ghoul, a man dressed in a colonial tricorn hat, a red jacket, and a ruffled shirt to put a Halloween pirate to shame. She didn't quite recognize him, but he was sure staring at her like he did. "You wouldn't know the half of it."

“I feel ya, sister. I feel ya. Listen, that little scuffle back there—don't misunderstand. Goodneighbor's of the people, for the people, you feel me? Everyone's welcome. I don't tolerate folks picking on the vulnerable.”

“So, what? You're mad because I broke your friend's nose?” She took a sip of her water. What did he want? Caps?

To her surprise, he laughed. “No, no. I was talking about Finn. Shouldn't have picked on you and Nicky like that. I don't like that shit.”

Oh. Then what was he here for? She hummed. Couldn't risk being careless here.

“To make up for it, why don't you and Nicky stay the night? There's a nice hotel up a ways: The Rexford. Your own rooms, on the house. Whaddya say?”

Who was he, anyway? Just some guy giving hotel rooms away for shits and giggles? “What's your angle?”

“I'm the mayor. Goodneighbor's fine reputation is my angle, sister.”

She conjured up a smile, as hollow as what she thought of people like him. “A politician. Great.” 

“Well, I ain't up for re-election for a while. But, if you feel like stepping into the booth with me, I ain't complaining.” 

And now he was hitting on her. The mayor was hitting on her. God, things never did change, did they? People were still assholes and politicians were pieces of un-wipeable shit. She had to laugh. She'd arrived in the mainland two hundred and twenty years ago, wasted fifteen years of her life fighting “The Man,” and two centuries later, the same “Man” was hitting on her. “Oh, my _God._ Does that line ever work with anyone?”

He shrugged. “You tell me.”

She had no comeback for that one, so she decided to let him have his win. Just this once.

“Listen, it looks like you and my friend Nicky could use some R&R. So, why don't you take it? It's a courtesy. Least I could do after that asshole harassed ya.”

Ah, yes, the asshole. So many of them flying about in this city. But she wasn't about to look this gift horse in the mouth. Free room and board was free room and board. “Thanks.”

“And if you need anything else, my place is the State House. Stop by whenever you feel like it.”

She was already walking out the door. “Mm-hmm.” Outside, Nick was staring at a body on the ground, in a pool of its own blood. The insurance guy. Damn, she hadn't hit him _that _hard, had she? “We got a hotel room. The mayor cat said something about the Rexford?”

Nick nodded. “Yeah... I, uh, know the place. I'll show you.”

* * *

The set of knuckles ramming into her jaw hurt nice and bright, clearing away the fog left behind from the Memory Den. The fighter before her, a pale woman named Cait with hair like an oozing head wound, taunted her with a hand in tattered wraps. _Come at me._ Other than the greasy ghoul of an owner, Tommy, she and Julia were the only breathing bodies left in The Combat Zone. Cait ducked one of her uppercuts, triangle-stepped and jabbed her in the ribs and Julia saw stars.

Stars that pulsed like the neural connections between Kellogg's memories. Shaun. Shaun had been there. He'd been there all grown up, with that son of a bitch and not her, learning God-knows-what and he disappeared into lightning and static and Kellogg was in Nick's head and she couldn't breathe, couldn't do it. Every breath burned going in and stung going out.

Julia dropped to her knees.

“Givin' up, are ya?” Cait sneered.

“Give the girl a minute. Ya probably concussed her,” she heard Tommy say from outside the cage.

The taste of warm copper swirled around her mouth, dripping to the ground in petals of red. But it was the reach of the memories tickling at the nape of her neck that scared her the most. To see Kellogg as a _human. _The human she'd shattered to pieces. But he'd known the loss of a spouse and child, so why would he decide to inflict it on her? She could still feel the sensation of blood, his blood, cold and sticky on her fingers, clinging to them like the guava paste she had once craved to dice up and eat as a kid. And no matter how many times she washed her hands it was still there, stuck in between the creases and grooves of her fingers and nails.

Buying out Cait's contract, she decided, would be her good deed for the day. Perhaps it would help turn around the thirty-three years of bad luck she'd had thus far. Hire her out to keep her hand-to-hand skills sharp, help her get clean and back on her own feet. That sort of thing. Unfortunately for Julia, Cait was loud and cantankerous, complaining about everything she set her eyes on: too much time spent on helping drifters, why talk when you can sock them in the face, too many cats, the bed was too springy.

So, when Cait sat up one Saturday morning when they were both (mostly Julia) hungover, Julia was surprised it wasn't another complaint. Didn't she pretty much hate her guts?

“Have a minute? Got somethin' on my mind.”

The anger she so often wore like a cape had been replaced with uncertainty. Cait's features were soft, almost childlike and innocent in the stream of sunlight pouring through the window.

Julia plucked herself off the lumpy pillow, feeling the dry tracks of saliva near the corner of her mouth. She breathed all heavy and sleepy, rubbed the stickiness from her eyes and stretched the stiffness off her swollen shoulder. “Sure. Shoot.”

She was quiet a while. Julia could hear her fidgeting under her thin sheets. “After Tommy stuck me with you, I was expectin' to hate your guts.”

Obviously.

“Not only because you agreed to pick up me contract, but because I was waitin' for you to order me around like hired help. Now so far, you've been treatin' me like a... friend. Hell, you've been damn near NICE to me.”

Her eyes shifted to the Pip-boy. 9:05 am. She scraped a bandaged hand over her face, trying to warm the drowsiness away.

“I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but your kindness is startin' to make me wonder. If there's anythin' I learned at the Combat Zone, it was that nobody does things for other people without wantin' somethin' in return.” 

Was that what this was all about? Couldn't this have waited until 10:05? Maybe even 11?

“You're right. This is a stickup. Gimme all of your caps right now,” she deadpanned, aiming a finger gun at her.

“Cute, Vidal, real cute.”

“Go back to sleep, Cait. It's fine.”

“No, listen: I spent three years livin' at the Combat Zone. Smelled like puke and piss, but I called it home. I was makin' a few caps, had me own bed to sleep in and three hot meals a day.”

And here she was, losing a battle between sleep and being a decent enough person to listen to someone pouring their heart out. The mattress squeaked when she sat up a little straighter. 

“Then the Raiders took over the place. You know that lot... they aren't exactly what you'd call 'the gentle type.' After they moved in, if you didn't keep looking over your shoulder, you were liable to get sucker punched and robbed... or worse.”

The implication behind '_or worse' _sent a chill up her spine enough to wake her up. How many times had that happened to Cait? In her experience, most women went through it at least once in their lifetimes, even if it was a close call. The humiliation, the misplaced guilt, and shame, feeling like one was broken, unfixable. The time behind the chicken coop, with one of the boys she'd met at the town hall, her face on the dirt, mud pressing into her ear.

Julia didn't know what to say. She felt for Cait, but her brain missed coffee.

“Didn't take me long to learn I had to put my hard-earned caps to good use. Buyin' friends was essential to makin' life easier. So I guess I'm waitin' for you to hand me a bill, you know what I mean?”

Well, now she felt like shit for pulling that flimsy movie gangster impression.

“Dammit, Cait. You don't owe me jack squat.”

“Now I'm havin' a real hard time believin' that.” She told her about her paramour, some asshole named Stratton who thought he could get sex via extortion. She swelled with pride at hearing Cait had kicked his ass and some of his friends', though the part about her getting ganged up on by the remaining Raiders was a drag. “That's when I learned nobody does favors for free.”

No words. She had no words for that.

“I'll tell you what. Give me some time, and I'll think of somethin' I can do to repay you.”

Julia grimaced. “I don't need it. I just need you to keep me sharp...” She sighed. “And to help me find someone to watch my back.”

“Going on another of your search and rescues, are ya?” Back to the acidic sarcasm, huh?

“No... I just... I need some help with... you know.”

“What? Can't get your juices flowin'?” she teased.

Was that supposed to be suggestive? “Shooting, Cait. I need help shooting.”

Her shoulders slumped and she rolled her eyes with a sigh. “You met MacCready yet? He's a helluva sniper.”

Julia yawned, feeling tears prick at the outer corner of her eyes. “Wait... It's early. Lemme jot it down.”

“MacCready. Hangs out at the Third Rail in the back. Handsome lad, too. Great with his fingers.”

Had everyone in this town fucked each other, or was it all in her head? She decided it didn't matter; she had a sniper to go catch.

* * *

The Third Rail was an aptly-named bar located in the abandoned subway, where all the local drifters and hepcats went to get their buzz—liquid or otherwise. It smelled like sweat and vomit and smoke and mold and beer piss and desperation, but she'd come to understand few places didn't. The ethereal voice permeating through the smoke was reason enough to stay; the hauntingly beautiful woman to whom it belonged sold her on the idea, though. She was lithe like a model, dressed in a sparkling red sequin dress that looked like it had been made just for her. The way she peered up through her blunt fringe, the way she smiled at her made Julia's heart falter for a second, made her cheeks heat up.

But the singer (Magnolia, the Mister Gutsy named Whitechapel Charlie had said) wasn't why she was down here. She had to focus. Cait had described MacCready as handsome, but beauty was in the eye of the beholder. She'd also mentioned him wearing some kind of hat and, other than Charlie, she hadn't seen anyone wearing a hat. Oh, and a back room of some sort? When she asked Charlie, he'd pointed at the obvious open door; she'd mistaken it for a closet of some sort.

Three men were there: two hulking thug-types looming over a sitting younger man wearing a military cap. She'd bet that was MacCready. The sneer on his face read of irritation, but she hadn't gotten close enough to hear the conversation. And when she did, they'd already concluded their little get-together. One of the tall ones bumped against her shoulder.

“Watch it, _bitch,” _he grunted.

She turned around, gawking at his retreating form. That overgrown orangutan of a man had just called her a bitch. He'd knocked right into her like she'd been invisible and gotten mad at _her_ for not being in some gaseous state that he could simply walk through and blamed her for not knowing how basic physics worked. The _nerve _of that man! He wouldn't be so tough if he knew what she could do with a knife.

Right. The task at hand. She frowned at the guy sitting down. “ You really should get better friends.”

He didn't react; he was too busy staring at her like he was taking in every detail of her body and committing it to memory. It made her feel naked and vulnerable and uncomfortable like she should be shielding herself from the onslaught of his bright blue eyes. _(How were they so blue?)_ Though maybe he didn't mean it that way; some people had an intense gaze, like some had claimed she possessed. He was dressed in what remained of a tan duster, and an army-like get up of an olive green long-sleeved shirt, scarf, and cargo pants. His belt held a pair of binoculars, expertly tied. His left leg was wrapped in bandoliers, while his right leg housed a tactical pouch. If he was anything as good as his outfit suggested, then she _knew _she had to be barking up the right tree.

God, what the hell was he staring at? She crossed her arms.

“You MacCready?”

The question must have broken whatever daydream he was in because he looked pissed again. “Look, lady. If you're preaching about the Atom or looking for a friend, you've got the wrong guy.” _Okay. What? _Just, _what? _“But if you need a hired gun, then maybe we can talk.”

Finally: terms she could appreciate. She dug in her knapsack for the pouch of caps she'd reserved for hiring him: one thousand in full. “You ready to go? I need someone to help me get rid of some pests.”

He dug through the bag the way a stray would dig through a dumpster full of food scraps and she nearly felt sorry for him. His clothes hung off him in perhaps two sizes too big, and she could distinctly see the tendons slipping over his knuckles and prominent metacarpals from beneath his bruised skin with every movement of his hands. He was all angles, from his cheekbones to his aquiline nose, to the hawk-like pointed tubercle in his thin upper lip, the jagged, broken teeth, to his jawline and chin. Julia had a sudden, overwhelming urge to find the boy a sandwich, quick.

“What kind of pests?”

Good. He was listening. “Does it matter? They're not supposed to be there and my client needs them gone.”

He shrugged and moved to pocket the caps, but her hand was quicker, looming on the bag in his palm. He scowled.

"Before we go... You gonna tell me who those hooligans were?”

MacCready gawked at her like she'd been prattling on in Spanish. “A couple of morons looking to climb the ladder of success by stepping on everyone else on the way up. Shouldn't be surprised, though.” He shrugged. “That's how it goes when you run with the Gunners.”

“Gunners?”

He said something about them being one of the biggest gangs around and how he'd gotten mixed up with them for a while. When you were young and starving, you'd pretty much do anything. She would know. The screaming matches at the town hall hadn't been for fun. A bunch of angry high school kids skipping out of school to yell at and/or with the discontented adults. The secret meetings in the back of the corner stores where they'd all whisper and smoke and drink and recite cheap poems written in lipstick and talk about the-powers-that-shouldn't-be while _Mami _withered away on her deathbed. Julia blinked the memory and the regret and the threat of tears away.

“Now, what about you? How do I know I won't end with a bullet in my back?”

She sighed. This was getting old. “Because I have shit aim.”

He snorted. _“What?”_

“You think I'd be hiring some random cat off the street if I could shoot worth a damn? You're there to watch my back.”

He stood to meet her like he'd been about to intimidate her with his bad boy getup. Only for her to realize he barely came up to her nose. Jesus. She'd known she was on the taller end of the spectrum when _Mami _couldn't find her uniform skirts quite long enough to cut the mustard, but this just made her feel... grotesque. Then again, when food was scarce, there wasn't much for the body to grow on, was there?

She tilted her head. Yeah. She could kind of see it now: with a good shower, some food and a toothbrush, he'd be cute. But somehow, she guessed he wouldn't want to hear the word 'cute' associated with his image.

He arched one of his bushy eyebrows at her and lifted the corner of his thin lips in a knowing smirk. Like he'd caught her admiring him. _Shit._

“Alright,” he said. “You're the boss.”

Damn right she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost caught up with the rest of the stories! Yaaay! I feel like I can't write a scene if I haven't written it from all the other perspectives, you know?


	8. Disparate Youth, Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her ambition, Julia pushes her companions too far and suffers the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could have also been titled "Mashed Potatoes."
> 
> Warning for PTSD-related flashbacks, references to homophobia, and just... general, all-around cringe.

Much to MacCready's distaste, she'd roped four mineworkers into playing a game of strip poker with her. What could she say? She needed new footwear and she hadn't worked up the stomach to loot clothes off corpses just yet. It hadn't been the first time she'd used her body to get what she wanted. At first, her curves had been a nuisance, a way to attract unwanted and inappropriate attention toward a middle-schooler: a guaranteed honk and catcall from nearby cars on her way home from school, a holler or two from sweaty construction workers. But she'd learned many tricks while being part of _Las __Águilas Blancas: _that many men were slaves to their basest impulses and that something as simple as a smile, a batting of the lashes, the flash of the wrist or ankle would have them selling their souls for another taste. Many men claimed the key to a woman's heart was to make her feel special and promise her the world; but for those same men, their world lay in her lips, her bosom, between her thighs. People were nothing but bipedal asses. All one had to do was keep dangling the proverbial carrot in front of their muzzles. Did she feel bad about it? Sometimes. But her body was no different than her knife or her wit: another tool in her holster. It came in handy with certain politicians and religious leaders whenever The Eagles needed to manipulate a local election or speed up certain bureaucratic processes. A few well-taken photographs with her posing on a dignitary's lap, or clad in a scandalous gown outside of a hotel balcony right before drugging his drink and Julia barely had to take anything off to get what she needed.

Unfortunately, her honeymoon in Atlantic City hadn't prepped her for this occasion and she wound up fudging some of the rules.

So, she'd let them think they'd won a few times, although counting cards was a skill that came as easily as riding a bike. (Bikes. Why did no one ride bikes anymore? She had to fix that.) And while being ogled while sitting in nothing but jeans and her bra felt as slimy as the sewer they were in, they weren't noticing MacCready snag the pair of her mark's boots from under the pile of clothes. His eyes shifted in a signal of his accomplishment and Julia threw on the heavy Diamond City girl accent again.

“Well, you guys were really good. But I think I'll fold.”

She tried to quell their displeasure with a few sweet placations, but she followed MacCready closely, verging on clinging to him to keep them away. Her stomach hurt and twisted inside, and it wasn't just the paint-peeling stench from the boots. There were times she thought she wasn't cut out for this. Sexuality wasn't a tool she often used, as she didn't really get _why _it was so powerful. She understood it more when it had been taboo and secretive, something beat kids would do in the darkness of a bodega closet room on a Saturday night before going to church the next morning. And sure, she'd fantasized about it after all the telenovelas she'd watched with her Abuela, and sampled it thereafter much later in life only to find it was nothing like the media portrayed. But in her opinion, sex was a lot like mashed potatoes: when it was bad, it was a gloopy, horrid mess_, _and when it was good, it was... good. But she didn't go around _craving _it the way others did. Made her think there was something wrong with her. Like she was as frigid as Nate had once claimed she was. But if mashed potatoes were the hottest thing around, she'd play her role as the Greasy Spoon Diner waitress as long as it ensured her survival.

Speaking of mashed potatoes, MacCready had been staring at her like someone had just poured gravy all over her tits. And when he made eye contact with her, she saw the color drain out of him. Poor guy.

“Like whatcha see, MacCready?” she teased. She couldn't help it. His face was far too honest.

He parted his lips to dispute but found little other than fragments of words. “Please,” he sputtered. “If you're trying to impress me, it's not going to work.”

From what Cait had implied, he had no reason to be so shy. And yet, this had to be the cutest thing she'd seen since she'd stepped out of cryo. “You're just mad you got caught.” She pressed him with a shimmy-shake and he was like an old Corvega engine choking on the exhaust.

“Oh _God.”_ He smacked a hand over his face and turned away. “Put some clothes on, will ya?”

Laughing this hard made her healing ribs ache, yet she couldn't help it. The huffy, candid expression made him look so much younger, made her start believing he may be much younger than she'd initially thought. At first glance, she'd pegged him at about early thirties, much like herself. But the way his cheeks puffed up over his pout made him seem like he could have been in his late teens or early twenties. In which case, this situation would be quite inappropriate.

She reached into her bag and slid a box of ammo his way. A peace offering. “Here. I got you a present, ya little pervert.”

While he examined it, she took the chance to finish getting dressed. They talked about Darla —_right, that was her name_—and Skinny Malone. And she stood corrected. It seemed that everyone in the entire Commonwealth had slept with each other at least once. Which, good for them, but she knew for a fact that radiation wouldn't kill herpes nor crabs nor the clap. In any event, it might make STDs worse. (Giant crabs. Oh, God. The mirelurks. No wonder MacCready had gotten so nauseated at her harvesting the meat.)

Bobbi No-Nose later told them the job required traveling to Diamond City and breaking a friend of hers out of jail. The last part would be a cinch for her, but Diamond City? Not so much. After Piper released that “Woman Out Of Time” article on her, the name Julia Vidal was likely all over the town; there was no doubt in her mind they'd associate her with her public dispute with the Mayor. If McDonough had been so petty to keep a long-time resident out of the city, there was no reason to believe he wouldn't do the same to her.

* * *

Though the blizzard took her by surprise, MacCready's reaction to the feral ghouls at Hubris Comics floored her. He'd nearly dropped his rifle, a blank look on his face she'd seen on Nate before. Slicing through them with the machete was like cutting sugarcane back on the island, but making sure the ferals didn't jump on him all at once while keeping them at bay was a chore. One dug his claw-like fingers into his arm and only then did he react by beating its head with the end of his rifle. Even when she managed to clear the floor on her own, he was still there, smashing into it, splashing blood and bone and brain matter everywhere. By the time she came down from the fourth floor, he'd been on his knees, staring at the mess he'd made, though she knew he wasn't really _there._

_Something must have happened to him._

That was everyone's story nowadays, though. Everyone alive had experienced something traumatic and awful and shocking at least once. Some found ways to cope, both helpful and not. Others couldn't bear carrying such a weight. And others, like MacCready, like her, drifted in and out of those categories. Some days, you were fine. Others... it was like leaving your body and watching yourself from a distance.

She wondered if that was what she'd looked like to Nick at Fort Hagen.

Julia wandered over and gently coaxed him to sit down against the wall, to wrap himself tightly in her fleece blanket, and he didn't resist nor respond with much more than an incoherent mutter. Once she'd attempted to stuff the corpses away from his immediate gaze, she took a seat next to him, to which he drew closer, breaching the gap between them. His bony cheek settled on her shoulder.

_The dish clatters to the floor and then a rumbling thud._

_Nate is screaming again. Fourth of July celebrations are the worst for him._

“Bebo, bebo,_ I'm here,” she says and he clings to her. His fingers dig against her aching flesh, where the rash has sprouted up. The glasses on her nose squeak, threatening to snap against his shoulder._

“_No, no, no I'm not going back I'm not going back I'm not—”_

“_No one is taking you. You're safe here.” She picks up his cane, readjusts his ill-fitting prosthetic leg._

“_Don't go don't go they'll tell everyone. Everyone. They're here, Lola, they're here!”His voice is ragged and hoarse, desperate._

“_I know. They're fireworks, _bebo._ It's just fireworks, and I'm right here.”_

“_There's so many of them just so many of them and I didn't know—they didn't tell us... God, there's so many of them everywhere.”_

Nate never told her who he'd meant by “so many of them.” He'd never liked to talk about it. But she'd sit there on the floor and hold him, hold him until she bruised and ached the next day, and then he'd go back to drinking and complaining like nothing happened.

The same thing happened with MacCready—or, RJ, she'd learned—when they left the next afternoon. He went back to not talking much, watching his surroundings with that shifty look, and drinking what she was certain was whiskey from his canteen. The complaining didn't start until Diamond City's skyline was in view, when she came up with a plan even she knew was stupid.

“Look, I think I should tell you...I might've burned some bridges at Diamond City.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Who'd you piss off?”

She sucked in a breath. “McDonough.”

The way he glared at her, she thought he'd been ready to blow his top and scream like a teakettle. Instead, he laughed. Julia wasn't quite sure which was worse. “Don't tell me you called him a synth.”

“No.” That had been Piper. And, frankly, without Piper, she might have not gotten into this situation in the first place. “Look, he was threatening this girl and her kid sister, so what was I supposed to do?” Julia cursed her own raging sense of justice and poorly-timed maternal instincts.

“What did you do?”

She explained the deal to him: she'd manipulated the optics of the situation, making it look like McDonough had taken certain liberties with her and abused his power. Which he _had._ Just not with her.

MacCready facepalmed so hard, she worried for a second that he'd rip the skin off his face.

“And let me guess: the girls were journalists? Piper and Nat Wright?”

“Oh, you know Piper and Nat?” _Oh. Not Piper, too._ Julia was sure latex factories had shut down centuries ago, and condoms had expiration dates. One would think sexual freedoms would come with more protection, but no.

He was fidgeting, pacing about, his hand at his mouth like he needed a fix. Sure enough, he pulled out a cigarette.

“We're not getting in, are we?”

“Yeah, I think you might have fu—screwed up our chances here, boss.”

She patted down some ice to make herself a bench to rest. It immediately melted into the contour of her butt, but she needed to look professional and confident, not like she'd made her seventh mistake today and was now the owner of a freezing wet ass. Diamond City. What did she know about Diamond City? Class distinctions. Segregated by economic status. Capitalism. So trade was important. That was why Piper had managed to get her by Sullivan: claiming to be a caravan. She and MacCready lacked the brahmin to pull that stunt again, but... As a mercenary selling his services, he could potentially be an asset to Diamond City. He'd gotten in before, after all. And, in her case, well...

“They don't check ID badges or papers, do they?” she asked.

“What?”

She'd need some minor cosmetic changes, easily done with makeup and a wardrobe change. Different hair.

Yeah, it was doable, in her opinion.

MacCready gave her a pinched look. “No. Whatever it is you're thinking, the answer is no.”

“Oh, c'mon! This might be our only way in, RJ!” _Yeah. RJ. Personalize it. Appeal to his sense of goodness._

“_No.”_

Goddamn mercs. Some sense of goodness he had. But if he wanted to play things that way, then fine. “What if... I gave you 75% of what we make with Bobbi? You get half of my half.”

His blue, blue eyes darted aside. _Look at 'im. He's practically weighing the caps in his hand. _

“What if... and hear me out...What if we go in together? As husband and wife?” A mercenary couple, the morally ambiguous version of Bonnie and Clyde.

She hadn't expected him to choke on his cigarette, though she was thankful when it landed on the snow and sank into it. He shook his head, still wheezing and hacking. “We're done here. I quit.” Damn.

She followed him as he trudged away in the snow. “We're not getting hitched for real! I'm just sayin', if you don't have too much of a rep there, then maybe we can both get in.”

He spun around.“Yeah, and who says I don't?”

“Do you?” She crossed her arms.

MacCready broke eye contact first. “...No.” _Got 'im. _“What makes you think they're gonna remember you, anyway? It's been a few weeks. Maybe they forgot.”

When she explained Piper's involvement, he bit his lip so hard she wore it would bleed. If only he'd just cuss and get over it. Why hold back? No one cared anymore, so why adhere to some arbitrary rules of what was and wasn't polite speech? He ripped off his cap, ran his fingers through his thick, ash brown hair. Beauchamp had once had ash brown hair, or so he'd claimed. She'd always thought he was handsome with his gray hair; she'd told him they made him look distinguished.

“I want 90,” he said through his teeth.

Caps! They'd been talking about caps. Right, right. Ninety percent. Steep. “85.”

“_90.”_

“Done.”

* * *

Not only had the rouse been completely unnecessary (Sullivan let MacCready in without even asking about her), and not only had it caused MacCready's friend Vadim to mistake their partnership as infidelity (turned out, MacCready had a dead wife! Had anyone bothered to fill her in on that? No!), but Bobbi No-Nose's gig turned out to be a huge dud, a waste of time and a potential act of treason against the Mayor of Goodneighbor. Had Hancock been any regular politician, he would have her charged and sentenced to prison. And if that hadn't been bad enough, she'd drunkenly danced with Nick and Hancock and made MacCready storm out of The Third Rail.

Julia fumbled with the key to the room, ambulating through the messy room littered with Cait's clothes and old cans of beer, only to fall face down on the mattress. She let out a loud, muffled shout into the pillow.

“That bad, is it?” Cait asked.

Another groan.

“I told ya The Third Rail's a pisshole.”

Julia flopped over onto her back. The wallpaper kept squiggling and the bed was moving under her body, even though she was perfectly still. “I suck.”

Cait was slicing off pieces of mutfruit with her knife. Her treatment seemed to have worked well for her. “Aye. And brahmin shit Jet fumes.”

“I think I made Nick uncomfortable.”

The fruit crunched in her mouth all wet and noisy. “Ah, he'll get over it.”

“I accidentally tried to steal from Hancock's storeroom. Even blew the bottom floor to smithereens.”

Cait pointed the knife at her. “Ballsy.” And then she returned to cutting another slice. “But he'll get over it.”

“Then I told him I hated people of his profession.”

“Oh, very ballsy. I like it. He'd actually respect ya for that.”

“And I convinced MacCready to pretend we were married so they'd let us into Diamond City.”

Silence.

“And his friend at the bar thought he was cheating on his wife. And MacCready's wife is dead. He had a wife and she's dead.”

Not even the knife was moving anymore.

“How was I supposed to know? I mean, I guess I never _asked. _Anyway, turns out the guard let us in without suspecting me anyway, so I was an asshole for no reason.”

The noiselessness was ringing in her ears, so she kept talking.

“And then I asked him to dance with me and he said no. So I got my feet all stomped on by Hancock, and I guess that made him... angrier? Anyway, he left. And this was all after I kissed Magnolia—Well, _she_ kissed me. I'd never... I mean she's pretty. But I've never really... kissed another woman before.”

Cait nodded. “Shite, lass. That's quite the week you've had.”

“I don't know what to do... How do I even word that apology? 'Sorry about your dead wife; here's 50 caps for your troubles'?”

She shrugged. “All I know is if ya wanted to try your first kiss with a girl, ya coulda skipped the Rail and stayed with me. I'll teach ya a thing or two.”

For the first time in a while, Julia felt herself go completely flustered: ears hot, heartbeat speeding. Attention of this sort had stopped fazing her years ago. But with Cait... Well, Cait was beautiful. Especially now that she'd gotten clean. She had skin like freckled marble, built like the mighty Femme-Ra herself, along with a pair of glittering emerald eyes and a cocksure smile. What wasn't to like? She was a scared, lonesome girl at her core, aching for acceptance and love and comfort. Julia saw a lot of her younger self in Cait. But she wasn't sure whether what she felt for her was out of a mother-like concern, out of friendship, or maybe something more. She'd never considered it. Like in most situations involving the general population, those considered “out of the norm” were cast aside and forced into closets under threats of humiliation or worse. Though the youth in_ Las Águilas Blancas_ had been diverse and often experimented around, she'd never received interest from another woman before. And now that the situation arose, Julia's brain had short-circuited. What should she say? Maybe it'd be different. Soft. Nice. Maybe she'd see what the big deal about mashed potatoes was.

“I was joking. You can relax now,” Cait said.

If her face had been burning then, it was an inferno now. She hadn't been serious. And she'd been imagining her... Oh, God. Julia pulled the covers over her face and wished for death.

Yep. She definitely sucked at peopling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom. Ace. Have fun seeing mashed potatoes the same way again.
> 
> Also, if you're reading the Nick companion piece: Did you get the reference? Huh? Did ya? Huh? *nudge-nudge with a giant fist made of ham* No, seriously. I'll work more on my subtlety. I promise.


End file.
